


Even in the Storm

by louciferish



Series: Long Live the Kings [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: All Magic Comes With a Price, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Banter, Blow Jobs, Canadian Shack, Cooking, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Food Porn, Hand Jobs, Hot Springs & Onsen, House Cleaning, Hurt/Comfort, King Katsuki Yuuri, Love Confessions, M/M, Memories, Not Really Character Death, Past Character Death, Rebel Victor Nikiforov, Revolution, Romance, Self-Indulgent, Sharing a Bed, The Author Regrets Nothing, Worldbuilding, and the improper use thereof, but not in canada, lots of sex eventually - Freeform, slight D/s undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23399182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: The so-called Rebel Prince, Victor, is dead.Or so King Yuuri's advisors think.While the men in power have their attention elsewhere, Victor and Yuuri seize a rare chance to spend time together outside of brief clinches in dark corners.Five days. Five days in a remote cabin, just the two of them and the ghosts of Yuuri's memory. It's an oasis of indulgence.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Series: Long Live the Kings [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1388548
Comments: 82
Kudos: 167





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for quite a while. It's shamelessly self-indulgent. It's about half-completed overall and wholly unbetaed because I'm really just rolling around in my id here. It has no update schedule in particular because I'm doing this for myself whether anyone else wants it or not. XD
> 
> A fandom classic, I was raised more by "two men trapped together in a Canadian shack with only one blanket" fanfics than I was by my parents -- you can't prove I'm lying! Though I don't usually write much smut, this is one of those ideas that's... look, they're going to be spending five days in a cabin together. They're desperately in love but have barely even had time to make out for _years_. They're going to be climbing all over each other. 
> 
> That's it. That's the fic.
> 
> But also it's this AU so you'll get periodically reminded that their lives are still tragic as fuck at this point in the story and everyone else Yuuri has ever loved is dead. But if you've read The Darkest Hour (and yeah, you should read the other two stories before this one. they're short. do that.) you know it all ends well... eventually.
> 
> Right now, though? Pain. Pain set in counterpoint to fucking. Enjoy.

It’s been one week, three days, and five hours since Yuuri heard that dreadful news. From his bed, he can see a calendar on the wall, counting down the days, and he hears the chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall at each hour. 

He can’t recall how he made it to his chambers, or how long he’s been lying here. In his vacant mind, the moment he overheard the generals is preserved in shattered crystal. Everything after that is empty space.

There’s a doctor in the room now. He must be in bad shape, if his advisors were willing to bring a doctor to the palace. Yuuko stands at the foot of his bed, twisting her apron in her hands, fretting as the physician leans over the bedside and checks Yuuri’s eyes, his heart, his breath.

Yuuri can hear his advisors somewhere nearby, fighting amongst themselves as always. He wonders what they would do if he never left this bed again. Would his confinement make life easier for them, or more difficult?

From the hall, Yuuri hears the echoing clang of the grandfather clock and counts to eight. 

It’s been one week, three days, and six hours since one of his generals came to court to report Victor dead. Yuuri remembers going cold, from his feet to his hair, and the sound of his advisors cheering. Then, blackness.

The doctor hums to himself and draws back from Yuuri’s bedside, scratching a note out onto a scrap of parchment. At the movement, Bishop Saito snaps out, “Well, what’s wrong with him then?”

“A blue mood and a summer cold,” the doctor says, rolling his sleeves down. He drops an instrument in his bag and snaps it closed, then pulls back the heavy curtains covering the door to Yuuri’s balcony. It’s dark outside, and Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut to hold in the heat welling up behind them. 

The creak of his balcony door calls to mind the press of fingertips on his scalp, the clutch of Victor’s arms as they pressed up against the rough stone wall, Victor’s breath hot against Yuuri’s collarbone as he murmured, _I have to go. Soon, the guards--_

With the door open, Yuuri can smell the sweet honeysuckle that climbs the trellises outside the window. He remembers _last_ summer, when Victor had climbed those very same trellises, trampling the flowers with hands and feet until Yuuri’s whole world smelled like honey and roses.

“I’m afraid the only cure for this is time and fresh air,” the doctor says, and Yuuri can hear his advisors grumbling at that, then his bedroom door swings open--they’re leaving.

Yuuri keeps his eyes shut. He can’t look at the balcony, not until they’re all gone. He hasn’t wept since he heard, not once, but sometimes he woke to find the cover of his pillow damp, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before the dam inside him breaks and everything comes pouring out. 

“Excuse me, sir,” Yuuko says, her clear voice like a bell as she approaches the doctor, “but I heard you say fresh air? Would it help, maybe, if I took him out to the gardens?”

There’s a beat of silence as the doctor considers it, then he answers, “Yes, I do believe that would help speed his recovery… though how you’d get him out there, I’m not sure.”

“Leave that to me,” Yuuko says firmly. “Thank you, sir.”

Then the latch of the door clicks again, and Yuuri knows he must be alone.

He opens his eyes slowly, blinking at the blurry image of the open balcony door, and beyond that, the night sky. Without his glasses or his sight potion on hand, the stars are indistinguishable from the black velvet all around them. 

He waits for the tears to come, but nothing happens.

His heart is cold and empty.

-

When Yuuko returns to his rooms sometime later, she brings her husband with her.

“Are you sure?” Takeshi asks, looking down at Yuuri with hands on his hips. “What if it makes him worse?”

“Trust me,” Yuuko says. “There’s no way this won’t fix him right up.” She pulls back the covers on Yuuri’s bed and tugs at his arm, urging him, “Come on, Yuuri. Up. Let’s get you outside, hm?”

If it were anyone else asking, Yuuri wouldn’t budge, but this is _Yuuko_. Her cute little face, unchanged since childhood, is set in a determined line, and she pulls at him again, insistent. 

Yuuri pushes himself up to sit. The world spins. He closes his eyes and feels himself beginning to slump, but then there are hands on both his shoulders, broader than Yuuko’s, holding him upright. Away from the cradle of his mattress, he can feel how the clothes he lay down in are sticking to his skin, held in place by days of sweat and shivering.

“This won’t work,” Takeshi says. “Look at him--he can barely sit up!”

“He just needs to adjust,” Yuuko replies. “Yuuri!”

Yuuri’s eyes snap open and he straightens at the familiar tone. Yuuko smiles, leaning into his space, her brown ponytail swishing as she tilts her head at him. “Come on. I promise this will help, okay? If you need to, you can hold onto Takeshi for support.”

Carefully, Yuuri rises from the bed. He takes Takeshi’s arm and follows Yuuko’s lead, shuffling slowly toward the door and then out into the hall. Takeshi is twice Yuuri’s size, well-built from years of heavy work, and he takes one step for every three of Yuuri’s. Yuuko walks ahead, stopping every so often to wait for them to catch up.

At the end of the hall, Takeshi stops completely. “At this rate it’ll be dawn by the time we get him outside.” Yuuri stares at the floor, noting the cracks between the stones there, dark with age and dirt the brooms can’t reach. 

“I can carry him,” Takeshi says.

Yuuri’s aware enough to know that plan may not be wise. If he cared more, he might protest about appearances. His advisors certainly wouldn’t want to see their king being carried around the lawns by the castle gardener. 

But right now, Yuuri doesn’t care. The sooner they get to the gardens, the sooner he’ll be allowed to give up and go back to his room. 

He doesn’t struggle when Takeshi picks him up, just loops his arms around the other man’s neck and holds on. It is, in fact, much faster.

Takeshi carries him out through the back door on the ground floor and into the walled garden. He carries Yuuri past the fountain where he used to play with his sister, the benches where he once studied astronomy with Minako, and the smiling marble statues of his mother and father that Yuuri can’t bear to look at.

He carries Yuuri all the way to the edge of the hedge maze, and only then does he lower Yuuri until his feet touch the grass. 

“Takeshi’s been working on the maze again,” Yuuko says, smiling mischievously with her hands clasped behind her back. “I was wondering if you can still find the center.”

Yuuri nods. The maze never changes, really. Takeshi and Yuuko have been trying to add new elements to improve it for the past decade, but there are secret passages and hidden tricks to it all that Yuuri’s known since he was eight, when he used to go to the center and hide anytime he felt the need to cry.

Where others might find the towering green hedges claustrophobic, Yuuri has always taken comfort in them. He runs his fingers along the leaves as he walks the precise path, feeling the sharp edges and tips of the branches prick at his hands. With a few twists and turns, Yuuri finds his usual pathway--a spot between two bushes that never grew closed. He slips through.

Nothing substantial is different, and he wonders what Takeshi was meant to have done. In minutes, Yuuri finds himself emerging from a cramped hall into the open heart of the maze.

And he isn’t alone.

The stone bench facing the fountain is occupied, and Yuuri’s heart catches in his throat as his eyes trace the line of those shoulders, where his hands have so often come to rest. A wounded sound escapes Yuuri’s lips, and he stumbles forward. Victor turns to face him with a mild little half smile. It’s the quickest Yuuri’s stepped in a week, and as he reaches Victor, he collapses, letting the soft loam of the courtyard catch his knees.

Yuuri folds, his head falling into Victor’s lap, and immediately Victor’s hands are there, long fingers cupping his head and carding through his hair. Yuuri wraps his arms around Victor’s waist to hold on--and feels the other man tense.

Lifting his head slightly, Yuuri draws back, blinking away the teardrops covering his eyelashes. “What--?” he starts to ask, but Victor shushes him, cupping his chin to wipe away Yuuri’s tears with his calloused thumbs.

His hair is gone. Yuuri can’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before, but he was a little distracted by the part where Victor is _not dead_. “How?” he asks. Victor’s hands won’t leave his face. Yuuri is still sprawled across his lap.

“I was wounded,” Victor says. His hands tighten on Yuuri when he tries to draw away at that news. “No, don’t go. It wasn’t serious.”

“Where?” Yuuri asks, scanning Victor’s body for clues. There’s a cane leaning up against the side of the bench, the wooden top carved into the shape of a snarling tiger.

Victor’s thumb lingers on Yuuri’s bottom lip. “My side,” he says dismissively, “but the healers had me in hand quickly.” His gaze lingers on Yuuri’s mouth for a moment before raising, staring deep into his eyes. “I thought of you always, every minute they had me trapped in that awful sick bed.” His hands wander again, skimming Yuuri’s cheekbones, his forehead, his shoulders, as if he’s memorizing everything he can reach. “They’d have me holed up in a safe house still if Yuuko hadn’t sent word. When I found out what you’d heard--how you were doing--” he smirks. “The whole royal armada couldn’t keep me away.”

It’s a ridiculous claim, but Yuuri smiles anyway. He can feel the damp from the ground beginning to soak the knees of his trousers and rises. His clothes are already ruined, but he needs to be closer. He folds himself against Victor’s uninjured side, tucking his face in the crook of Victor’s neck.

“I’m glad you came,” Yuuri confesses, as if that were any secret. Victor wraps an arm around him, pulling him closer still. “But you didn’t need to come here in such a rush for me. You should take better care of yourself. I’d be fine.”

Victor chuckles. “Hypocrite. You weren’t taking care of your health either, were you?” His tone is joking, but his fingers are pressed firmly into the space between Yuuri’s ribs, as if he fears Yuuri might slip away.

“I would have been fine,” Yuuri says, deflecting. “Those old bastards wouldn’t let anything happen to me now. They still need someone to play at being king.”

Yuuri’s words lie all around them, taking up what little space there is between their bodies. Yuuri takes Victor’s hand, playing with his fingers. Despite what he may claim, they both know there’s no predicting how the men in charge would react if Yuuri were to weaken, physically or mentally. They don’t talk about that, just as they’re not talking about the way Victor winced before or the cane at his side. Those aren’t markers of someone who was barely injured, and glad as Yuuri is to see Victor safe, he does wish Victor had more space to rest--somewhere other than a rebel outpost in a tent or a cave, somewhere _safe_.

An image springs to Yuuri’s mind as he thinks of safety--a cabin, surrounded by towering evergreens and wrapped in ivy, and behind it the sound of waves and seabirds. Victor looks over at Yuuri, tilting his head with unspoken question, and Yuuri realizes he’s been squeezing Victor’s hand too tight.

“I had a wild idea just now,” Yuuri says, releasing Victor’s fingers. He fastens both his hands on his knees and focuses on them. “My family has a hunting lodge, maybe two hours’ travel outside the city. It’s in a game preserve beside a private beach. I haven’t been since before my parents--”

He breaks off, risking a sideways glance at Victor, who is still listening patiently. “I thought maybe you would be able to stay _there_ to recover. And perhaps…” He pauses to take a breath, chest fluttering at even the thought of these next words. “I could join you.”

Victor bites his lip, brow furrowing. His newly-shorn hair shows much more of his forehead, and Yuuri resists the temptation to reach out and touch it, which would certainly derail their conversation. 

“I love your idea,” Victor says, and Yuuri’s heart swells, “but it may not be wise. It’s _risky_.”

He’s speaking words of hesitation, but his eyes are desperate, searching Yuuri’s. His hands twine with Yuuri’s between their knees, and Yuuri can feel it in his touch, how much Victor wants to say _yes_. He knows, because he wants it just as much.

 _A few precious days_ , Yuuri thinks. No more hiding in the corner of his balcony, wrapped in curtains and darkness, trading whispers and frantic kisses in the momentary space they can make for themselves, until Victor has to pull away or Yuuri has to push him back, one of them murmuring to the other, _I know, I know, but the guards-- the next patrol--_. For a few days they could actually have the freedom to be together, to spend time without the concerns of a world on their shoulders.

“If you can get to the cabin,” Yuuri says, “then I can make the rest work on this end. I know it’s a risk--but I’m sure I can do it.”

 _It’s worth it_ , he doesn’t need to say, because they both hear it. Victor nods, resolute, and Yuuri rests his head on the other man’s shoulder, breathing deeply. Victor will need to leave again soon--the maze does get patrolled periodically too--but for the moment Yuuri revels in the scent of him amidst fresh air, flowers, and cut grass.

-

In the end, it’s easy enough to get away. After Victor vanishes once more into the night, Yuuri simply rejoins Yuuko and Takeshi and returns to the castle. He carefully manages his attitude as he climbs the stairs to his room, one of his friends at each elbow to support him if he stumbles. He knows there can be eyes anywhere in the palace. Yuuri aims to look somewhat restored by his journey in the gardens, but still listless and distant.

Yuuko takes on the task of speaking to his doctor the next morning, mentioning the hunting cabin in passing more than once until the doctor walks away with the idea, fully believing it was his own. 

Although Yuuko always claims her tricks are merely the natural invisibility of servants, Yuuri suspects there’s more to it than that. She’s simply too good at persuasion; it’s a shame she can’t teach him that.

The doctor in turn takes _his_ brilliant idea to Yuuri’s advisors, and--after much assurance that Yuuri’s health is in danger without a holiday--they capitulate. 

It takes another day to prepare Yuuri for travel, but by the following afternoon he’s bundled into a carriage with Yuuko as his sole attendant, wrapped into a cocoon of wool blankets despite the warmth of a bright spring day. 

Takeshi checks in with them momentarily from the driver’s seat, craning back to peer through the carriage window. “All settled? We’ve got a long ride ahead, and the roads can get bad this time of year.”

Yuuko and Yuuri exchange a look, then Yuuko turns back to her husband. “We’re ready,” she affirms. Takeshi clucks to the horses, loosens their rein, and the carriage lurches forward.

Yuuri sways side to side with the rock of the cabin as they wind down the castle paths. He leans against the wall and stares blankly through the window as they pass by the gardens and the the guardhouse. The carriage pauses briefly there to check in, and then the gates swing open and the horses step out into the city.

As they pass through the great stone arch above the gates, a weight lifts from Yuuri’s shoulders. He presses his face nearer the window and sips in a sweet breath of freedom. How long has it been since he went beyond the castle walls? Three years? Four? At the age of nineteen, that’s nearly a fifth of his lifetime.

Yuuri reaches for the outer blanket around his shoulders, sweltering beneath the pressure. He intends to throw it off--until his eyes meet those of a villager outside the carriage. 

The stranger’s gaze is steel and fire. His brown face is lined with years, exhaustion, and worry, but as he looks at his king’s carriage, adorned with all its gold and symbolism, _fury_ smoulders beneath the man’s weariness. 

Yuuri keeps his blankets in place until they pass beyond the edge of the city.

Once they begin to see countryside and farm houses, the mood in the cabin lightens. From the bench across from him, Yuuko grins slowly. Even her eyes seem brighter as she looks out the window, then back at Yuuri. He hasn’t seen her smile like this since they were children, and soon they _are_ children again, standing up in the carriage to point in excitement at animals and strange sights they can glimpse through the two windows, at least until they pass over a hole in the road and the car jumps, dumping them both back in their seats, still smiling and giggling at one another.

Yuuri can’t believe he never thought to do this before, but it never even occurred to him to _ask_. The castle was always so dark, a cloud of despair muffling his movements in the halls. When was the last time he did anything without feeling the crawl of a dozen eyes as they grasped at his spine? He can’t remember.

Now he bounces a little in his seat, wiggling around and tapping his feet, unable to rein in his excitement at the thought of what lies at the end of his journey.

“Oh my god,” Yuuko gasps, bright-eyed and delighted, “you look like I felt on my wedding day.”

Yuuri flushes and hides his face in his hands, trying to shield himself from Yuuko’s teasing words, until she bats his hands away--and then teases him more about his pink cheeks. She even calls him _piglet_ , fondly. Her mother had called him that, back when they were still just infants, and even Yuuri’s family had picked up the nickname. 

_Piglet_ had died when _Your Majesty_ had been born, of course. As a kid, Yuuri had been furious at that nickname, hated the comparison. He never noticed before that he missed it when it went away. 

With the easy mood, the journey out to the cabin flies by, and soon Yuuri feels the sway of the carriage slow and hears Takeshi in the driver’s seat, speaking soothingly to the horses. He peers out the window again, but nothing strikes him as familiar. 

“When was the last time anyone came out here?” Yuuko asks, wrinkling her nose as the carriage pulls to a stop in front of a simple wooden cabin. It doesn’t look extravagant or royal, aside from the size--it’s easily twice as big as most homes in the city. Although the path around it is well-maintained, hardy vines with flat, wide leaves have ascended the sides of the building and curl around the chimney, unchecked.

“I’m not sure,” Yuuri admits. “I think I came once before, or maybe Mari mentioned it to me at some point before she… left.” He remembers the building’s existence, but can’t recall who told him. “Probably no one has stayed in here since my parents.”

Yuuri starts to rise and open the door, but Yuuko’s hand on his arm stops him. “I know you’re eager to get inside, but-- Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? You two might need the extra help, especially since Victor’s been hurt, and Takeshi’s mother won’t be disappointed if he visits without me.” She rolls her eyes at the thought. “She’d probably write you a thank you note.”

“We’ll be fine,” Yuuri promises. “I’m not completely helpless-- I’m not!” He has to protest at the look on Yuuko’s face. 

“Who’s helpless?” Takeshi opens the carriage door for Yuuri, then offers his arm to assist him stepping down. “Not the guy I had to carry out into the garden because he couldn’t climb stairs just two days ago?”

Yuuri steps out of the carriage without Takeshi’s aid, choosing not to dignify the comment with a verbal remark. “We’ll be _fine_ ,” he repeats as he tugs his bag to the ground as well. “Enjoy your visit home.”

Yuuko flashes him a cheeky little smile and says, “You too.”

As the carriage trundles off down the garden path, Yuuri takes a deep breath. Now that his friends have gone, all he can hear is tree branches rustling overhead and the waves crashing on the nearby shoreline. It’s so quiet. The castle is quiet--still and oppressive as a tomb--but the forest is quietly alive all around him. The air even feels lighter, and--he takes another inhale through his nose and smile--it smells wonderful, like pine needles and salt and _green_.

He turns to look at the cabin, and his heart stutters in his chest. 

He should have asked Yuuko to stay. _God_. Anything could be waiting for him on the other side of that flat-paneled red door. It could be a disaster. It could be an ambush. Worst of all, it could be empty.

Yuuri drags his bag over to the entrance, no longer able to hear the song of nature over the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears. He rests his fingertips on the cool iron of the door handle. For all he knows, Victor hasn’t even come. It’s possible Yuuri just signed up for four days alone in the woods with the ghosts of his family. He swallows and pulls open the door.

It’s an instant relief. The cabin is dark and dusty, white cloth draped over indistinguishable shapes blowing in the breeze Yuuri has let inside, but right across the room he can see the figure of his hope standing--Victor, his back to the door, leaning on a cane as he stares out the window.

He turns, smiling at Yuuri with eyes lit from within, and all Yuuri’s concerns from the carriage evaporate like mist before a sunrise. “You can see the ocean from here,” he exclaims, and Yuuri smiles in return.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again
> 
> This chapter picks up _exactly_ where the last ended. Still no smut yet, just relationship things. Soon.

“Can you?” Yuuri puts his bag down by the door and crosses the room to join Victor at the window. “I did say it was by the sea.” He looks outside, searching the horizon, and his smile fades. The lawn has grown up in back of the cabin, tall weeds and young trees crowding out the soft grass. In the past, the land had most likely been cleared to create a spectacular view from the porch straight to out to the beach, but now Yuuri can only see glimpses of white sand and blue waves between the bushes.

He glances over at Victor, a word of disappointment on the tip of his tongue, but Victor is still staring in wonder out the window. “I’ve never been to the sea before,” Victor admits quietly, “to the docks and the shipyard, sure, but never to the _sea_. Not like this.”

Killing his dismissive comments unsaid, Yuuri reaches out, taking Victor’s hand in his own. “We can walk down together,” he says, “right now, if you’d like.”

Victor chuckles and squeezes his hand, then drops it. “I’d love that, but there’s fifteen years of filth covering this place. If we went for a run on the beach now, I think we’d regret coming back to a dirty cabin.”

Looking around, Yuuri can see what Victor means. All the furniture is draped with white cloth to protect it, but there are tracks on the wood plank floor that lead from the front door to the window, showing where Yuuri stepped. He’s never seen anything like it before. Even the wings of the castle Yuuri ordered closed after his sister’s death are cleaned occasionally, in case they might be of some use. This place seems to have gone untouched for the whole length of Yuuri’s reign.

Victor steps over to one white blob and pulls its covering back. As the cloth falls away, it reveals an old-fashioned plush fainting couch, its red cushions still vibrant despite the years. “One down,” Victor declares proudly, “only a dozen or so to go in this room.”

Uncovering the furniture is easy enough, though not exactly pleasant. The white cloth draped over everything is coated in dust and cobwebs. Dirt clouds the air as the sheets whip free. Soon, both of them are sneezing, eyes watering. It’s very undignified, being seen this way, and Yuuri wonders if it makes him unattractive--no doubt his eyes and nose are red and running from the ordeal. 

He glances at Victor to see if he’s watching and finds the man grinning instead, slightly flushed himself and hair standing on end where the sheets rubbed against his head. His blue eyes seem to sparkle, and Yuuri sucks in a shocked breath.

Then, he sneezes again. 

While the cabin is hardly a summer palace, and rustic by royal standards, it’s not as small as it looked from the front. They find two apparent bedrooms adjoining a single bath in addition to the main cabin and kitchen. There are also several doors that seem to lead to storage, wooden crates piled to near the ceiling and more cloth-covered furniture that likely dates to Yuuri’s great-grandparents. After a few of these, he and Victor stop bothering with every door. They have bedrooms and a kitchen--what more could they need?

With all the coverings removed from the furniture in the rooms they chose, the only thing left is to clean out some of the dust. Yuuri opens as many windows as he can, while Victor goes in search of the pantry. When he returns, he’s got a broom in the hand not gripping his cane. 

“Let me do that,” Yuuri says without thinking, then pauses. He’s never used a broom in his life. 

He’s seen others sweep, of course. He has an idea of how it works, but even an _incompotent_ king can’t be expected to clean up after himself. Still, he has to offer. Victor is injured, after all. 

Victor doesn’t seem to notice Yuuri’s hesitation. He hands over the broom, then circles around to finish opening the windows.

 _How hard could it be?_ Yuuri wonders. He sets the bristly end to the floor and begins to swing--back and forth, back and forth. A spot beneath the brush grows darker and slightly less grey, and Yuuri straightens his back. Not so difficult, really. He could do this. Perhaps he would have been better off as a servant or the son of an innkeeper. If he needed to, he could leave the castle after all. 

A cloud of dust rises around Yuuri’s feet, settling in dull patches on his shoes and obscuring the golden thread embroidered into the slippers. From his position leaning on the furniture, Victor coughs--first, the polite small sound of someone looking for attention, then louder, spluttering and authentic.

“Yuuri,” Victor snaps, and suddenly his hand is gripping the broomstick just below Yuuri’s own. “Are you trying to smother us both before the old bastards can even get a chance to send their assassins?” 

“What?--” Yuuri glances down at the floor, seeing a small spot swept clean while around it the displaced dust settles in piles. Yuuri has created a mountain range of filth, all hills and craggy cliffs above a tiny valley of smooth, shining floor. In a stream of sunlight that pours through the open window, Yuuri can see the dirt motes dancing in swirls like maidens at a masquerade. 

“It’s not magic,” Victor explains. His voice has dropped, more calm and even now, but there’s still a lot of color to his cheeks. “You don’t just tap the broom on the floor and make the dirt disappear.”

“I know that,” Yuuri snaps. “I’m not a child. I’ve seen people sweep.”

The words settle on the air between them, drifting down amidst the cloud of dust. _Seen them_ , Victor doesn’t need to say. _Seen them, but never done it. Not in your whole life._

Yuuri can feel heat in his face, creeping toward his ears. When Victor gently tugs the broom away, Yuuri lets it go. 

Slow and deliberate, Victor scrapes the broom along the floor. “Like this,” he says. “Just pick one direction to sweep in, until you make a pile. It’s simple, really.” He winces again, the movement pulling at his wound, and Yuuri grabs for the broom.

But Victor doesn’t release. “I can do it,” Victor says. “You just relax--”

“I’m not _stupid_ ,” Yuuri growls, teeth gritted. His fingers tighten on the broom. “If I can understand military strategy, I think I can handle this. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I’m not an invalid!”

Victor is still holding the broom handle with both hands, his blue eyes flashing from sea tones to steel, and yet Yuuri holds on tight. The dust has settled back to the floor, but the air between them is thick and taut as an acrobat’s tightrope. 

The moment stretches, and Yuuri doesn’t relent. Victor’s eyes drop, then his hands. “Very well, _your majesty_.” 

Yuuri flinches. He’s heard those words a thousand times, and they spill from his advisors’ lips with that same sour tone all the time, but never before has Victor spoken to him in such a way. It wounds, but he can’t deny a curl of satisfaction burning in his chest as well. _I won_ , it whispers.

The tap of Victor’s cane is the only sound in the cabin for a moment, before Yuuri begins to sweep. _I’ll show him. I’ll prove it’s nothing._

Yuuri’s strokes with the broom are slow, stuttering where Victor’s movement had been smooth, and Yuuri glares at the floor, determined to make it work. He slows even further and watches the motion and its effects, tracing what he needs to do. Eyes zeroed in on the floor and the steady, repetitive slide of the bristles, he nearly forgets Victor is there.

Until he hears a door slam shut.

Yuuri swallows, trying not to flinch at the sound. _This was a mistake_ , his thoughts hiss in a jumble of dissonant voices. He usually tries to tune that out when he’s around Victor, but he can’t help wondering if, this time, they’re right. 

He’s always assumed he and Victor had an understanding with little need for words. They’ve had a hundred conversations in quiet whispered rendevous, a brush of hands, a look across a crowded room, but many of those were brief moments, snuffed out after only a few minutes by the sound of an approaching footstep. In the years they’ve been together, they’ve never managed to spend a whole day alone, much less five full days. What if their relationship until now was merely a dream brought on by fear and urgency?

Realizing he’s stopped sweeping anyway, consumed by his thoughts, Yuuri lays the broom aside and steps outside for a moment, onto the back patio. The porch is still sturdy, the wood well-tended despite the place going without royal visitors for so long. From outside, there’s a much better view of the promised ocean beyond the unruly wilderness that’s grown up out back. Placed on top of a small hill with obvious deliberation, the rear of the cabin overlooks a winding, weed-crowded path cut through the woods, down to a sandy shore. Pushing up his glasses on his nose, Yuuri peers out at the blue, white-capped waves in the distance. Though it’s too far off for him to be able to hear or smell the sea, Yuuri lets his eyes fall close and imagines the rhythmic rush of water.

He takes a deep breath, sucking in the cool, fresh air of the forests. How long has it been since he last inhaled air not tinged by palace cleaning potions or the muck and filth of the city below? Probably not since the last time he visited the cabin with his family. 

Past the porch, Yuuri can see a spindly white wood shape, green and yellow plant life tangled over it, and he takes a step forward, eager to explore.

He hesitates. Victor is still inside and injured besides. If Yuuri goes haring off into the woods, where will that leave him? They may have snapped at each other, but Yuuri can’t just wander off and leave him alone, especially not when he’s still recovering from his wound. Yuuri is the one who invited Victor out here, after all, under the guise of helping him get better. Now, he wonders if that was ever his intent. Maybe he just, selfishly, wanted some time alone with his lover. Maybe he didn’t consider the true cost of that.

With the back door still open, he can hear the _click_ of the bedroom door as it opens again, then the tap-tap-tap of Victor’s cane. Yuuri turns, stepping back inside to see what Victor needs--whether that’s a hand with the cleaning or a carriage back to the city.

When Yuuri reappears, a cloud that was hovering over Victor’s head disperses, and he smiles crookedly. “There you are,” he says. “Not leaving already?”

“Not leaving at all,” Yuuri promises. 

Slowed by his injury, Victor can’t rush across the room to meet him, but he moves forward with a quickness, and Yuuri meets him halfway, arms wrapped tight across his back, feeling the sharp jut of Victor’s shoulderblades beneath layers of muscle, skin, and shirt. Yuuri lays his head on Victor’s shoulder and feels Victor’s head dip to nestle against him in turn. 

“I’m sorry I was cross with you,” Victor says. “It’s not your fault.”

Yuuri pulls back to protests. “No, I should apologize. You’re in pain. Of course you’re frustrated, and I _was_ doing a bad job with the cleaning. I just hate… feeling useless.”

Reaching up, Victor cups Yuuri’s cheek in his hand, and Yuuri allows himself to lean into it, eyes falling closed. “You’re not useless. You’re doing something for the first time. Just because it seems easy to me now, doesn’t mean it was obvious _my_ first time.” He smirks. “I’m sure I made a real mess.”

“Yes, but you were a child.” Yuuri shakes his head. “Children are allowed to be messy.”

“You can be messy with me.” 

Yuuri blinks, taken aback by the sentiment. _You can be messy with me_. It’s something he never realized he wanted, having spent most of his life in the palace with walls at full strength. He’s always been smiling and playing a role, never setting a toe out of line for fear of the echoes his steps would bring. But Victor isn’t going to have his head for speaking out of turn or tying his jacket on the wrong side. With Victor, Yuuri can make mistakes.

“You know,” Victor muses, smiling at himself, “I forget you’re the king sometimes, even when I’m climbing those spiky, crumbling castle walls to see you. We seem to fit so well together when we talk, it’s easy to think we’re more--well, more alike.”

“We are alike,” Yuuri protests fiercely. “It’s all just made-up titles and gilded garbage.”

“But you’ve never held a broom or washed a dish.” Victor is truly amused now, his eyes crinkling with mirth at the idea, and instead of being outraged, Yuuri blushes. It’s true, whether he likes it or not. 

“Let me help you clean,” Victor says, adding, “I won’t hurt myself!” when it looks as if Yuuri is bound to protest. “I’ll take a chair, and I’ll be king for the day, sitting on my throne. I’ll try to help without getting up.”

It’s a brilliant compromise, and Yuuri finds himself wondering if, in another world, Victor might have made a particularly good diplomat. He certainly has the ability to wear a variety of faces. 

Yuuri reclaims the broom and begins to clean once more, now under the watchful eye of his Cleanliness King. It’s harder work that he thought, and after only half the main room has been swept, Yuuri has to take a break, rolling his shoulders to release tension from hunching toward the broom.

“Maybe I should have asked Yuuko to stay with us after all,” he mutters, and Victor chuckles. 

“It would help now,” he says slyly, “but it might end in Yuuko seeing parts of her king that she isn’t quite ready for.”

Yuuri flushes to the tips of his ears at the implication. Of course, that’s another of the many advantages to time alone with Victor, but-- No, he can’t think about that in the middle of cleaning, or he’s liable to get distracted and they’ll wind up living in filth all week.

At least that would be another novel experience for Yuuri.

With only one somewhat inept man sweeping--and taking frequent breaks to rest, collapsing in the overstuffed chair not occupied by Victor to periodically catch his breath--the entire process takes much longer than it should have. By the time Yuuri is escorting the last pile of dirt out the back door, the sun is dipping toward the sea in the distance, lighting the horizon with streaks of pink and orange.

He sighs, leaning on the broom and staring out at the view spread out before him. His body is aching and his face feels stiff with fatigue already, but there’s a strange sense of satisfaction balled in his chest. Yuuri’s advisors think him helpless, but they underestimate him. Perhaps sweeping a floor would be nothing to most citizens in his kingdom, but to Yuuri it’s much more than that. Today, he confronted something he’d never done before, something which didn’t come naturally to him, and he pushed through. He succeeded. 

The tap of Victor’s cane on the wooden porch gives him away before his arm slips warm around Yuuri’s waist, and Yuuri leans back into the embrace. 

“Beautiful,” Victor murmurs into Yuuri’s ear, and Yuuri squeezes his forearm in answer.

“Too bad it’s getting dark,” he says. “I did want to take you down to the shoreline, but the path doesn’t look safe enough for an evening stroll.”

His sentence is punctuated by a yawn, and Victor chuckles. “Another time. You’re exhausted. _I’m_ exhausted. We have plenty of time ahead of us if we want to clean the path and build a fire on the beach one of these days.”

 _Plenty of time_. What a strange thought. Yuuri turns his head, resting his face over Victor’s heartbeat, and closes his eyes. They have far more time together than ever before, but could it possibly be enough? 

Yuuri yawns again, skin pulled tight, and Victor echoes him a beat later. “Come on,” he says, tugging at Yuuri’s sleeve. “The earlier we turn in tonight, the sooner we can be up in the morning, and then we’ve got days and days ahead of us.”

“Oh, who made you so smart?” Yuuri teases, but he lets Victor pull him back inside. 

The two bedrooms are at the far end of the cabin, and from the outside they look much the same, so Yuuri chooses one of the two doors at random. Opening it, he freezes at the sight revealed. Two beds lie inside--two _small_ beds with a bright-colored rug on the floor between them. Against the back wall is a little chest. The floppy, faded arm of a cloth doll sticks out from the box’s opening, as if she were saying hello--or trying to escape. 

“Was this your room?” Victor’s keeping his voice soft, as if he’s afraid to startle Yuuri. Yuuri shakes his head.

“I-- I don’t really remember.” He frowns, gripping the edge of the door tight. “I was too young.”

Victor’s hand rests on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. “You can look at it more later if you want,” he says. “See if it jogs any memories. But, for now, I think these beds might be a little small for us.”

Yuuri forces a smile as he turns, but he can tell from Victor’s solemn look it’s unconvincing. “You’re right. Let’s check the other room.”

The other bedroom, across the hall, is just as bad in a different way. The first thing Yuuri notices is the smell--sour and cloying at once, threaded with something faint he can’t quite place, something familiar. The bed is clean, and the white sheet that had protected it from dust all these years lies crumpled on the floor. There are already coverings spread across the bed, pillows, and a window standing open to let in the air. 

It’s a huge bed, far larger than the one Yuuri chose for himself at the palace. A whole family could fit in it, and Yuuri’s hit with a sudden flash of--something. Warmth. Comfort. The heat of many soft, beloved bodies curled into a single space. 

His _parents_ had slept here. Yuuri blicks back heat gathering behind his eyes and hugs himself tightly. 

“If you’re uncomfortable,” Victor says, and this time Yuuri _does_ jump--he’d forgotten Victor was watching, “I understand. I can sleep on the floor.”

“What? No.” Yuuri denies it on instinct. That wasn’t even what he’d been thinking about, but oh-- Of course. There’s only one bed in this cabin not built for a child. “You’re injured,” he says, as if Victor needs the reminder. “You won’t be sleeping on the _floor_.”

“I’ve had worse,” Victor says with an empty chuckle, and Yuuri tries not to imagine what that might mean.

Since he’d suggested they make this journey, Yuuri has thought quite a bit about what it could mean, being able to go on holiday with Victor. He’s lain awake at night, thinking of it and of the freedom they would have to be together, to kiss as they liked, touch as they liked, and this--sharing a bed--is another part in all of that. It’s part of being alone with Victor at last. It’s part of being _intimate_ with Victor that feels so much grander than simply holding hands or caressing Victor’s cheek in the moonlight on a balcony.

Yuuri’s never even kissed anyone besides Victor.

“I want this,” Yuuri insists, and then he turns and faces Victor to repeat it, so Victor can look into his eyes and see how much he means it. “I _want_ this.”

The answering smile dawns slowly across Victor’s features, like liquid gold poured over a work of art. He reaches for Yuuri’s hands, then raises both to his lips. “I want this too,” he whispers, breath fanning Yuuri’s knuckles. 

Then, he yawns, and they both laugh. 

“Bodies have no respect for romance,” Victor groans. “Okay, we’re listening. We’ll go to bed.” Still grinning, he leans up against the footboard of the bed and begins to pick open the buttons on his doublet.

Yuuri, flushed, averts his eyes as his stomach does flips. Right. One doesn’t sleep fully clothed, of course. Another thing Yuuri hadn’t quite considered.

He takes his time with his own vest. Four satin-covered buttons have never required such a level of care. By the time he slips the last one free, he hears the bed frame groan and glances up, needing to see what Victor’s done.

He’s not naked, and never before has Yuuri been simultaneously so relieved and disappointed. Victor still has his white shirt on, unlaced at the throat, and plain underpants as well. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Yuuri with a fond smile. 

“Between the sea, the sunset, and you, I’m never going to know where to look this week.”

Yuuri flushes, heat creeping up his neck, and ducks his head. He’s been trained to respond politely to political flattery. He has no idea what to do when the person _means_ it. For lack of words, he focuses on getting himself ready for bed, following Victor’s lead and leaving on his shirt and shorts. With his clothes folded and laid aside, Yuuri dares to look back up and finds Victor in the bed, stretched out beneath the coverings with his head propped on a plump pillow.

He makes a cozy picture, and Yuuri can’t wait to join him. “Comfortable?” he asks, and Victor nods, a satisfied smile stretching his lips.

Yuuri clambers onto the bed beside him. “This may be the nicest bed I’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing,” Victor says. “And not just because of the company it keeps.”

“Oh, quiet. I’ll never survive the week if you keep saying things like that.” Though the bed is wide enough for five or six people, Victor raises his arm when Yuuri climbs under the covers, and he accepts the invitation to worm his way closer. Shoulder to ankle they align beneath the sheets, and Yuuri ignores his own small army of pillows in favor of sharing Victor’s.

“Can’t help it,” Victor says mournfully. “I’ve been holding it all back for much too long. I was bound to spring a leak.”

“If your prose is usually restrained, I’d hate to see what the flood looks like,” Yuuri mutters. Victor’s always been vocal in his opinions of Yuuri--and not only the flattering ones--but he really is being exceptionally flirty now that they’re alone. It’s funny, Yuuri thinks. They’re well past the courting stage--doesn’t Victor realize he’s already won Yuuri over?

He rolls onto his side and examines Victor’s face in profile. He’s never had so much luxury to do even such a little thing, and his breath trembles as he traces the line of Victor’s cheek, the slope of his nose, and the fan of his long silver lashes where they catch the last light angling through the window. 

Victor is silent, looking up at the ceiling, and Yuuri reaches out to trace the outline of his jaw. “What are you thinking?” he asks.

“This cabin is so quiet.” Victor smiles again as he turns to meet Yuuri’s eyes. “I spend most of my time in the city, or else in camps surrounded by soldiers. Nothing is ever this quiet. Between that and the sea outside, I can’t imagine how you’d ever forget a place like this.”

“I was very young when my parents died. It’s amazing I remember them as well as I do.” Victor squeezes Yuuri tight at that, and he lets himself be held as he hasn’t in ages, taking in a type of comfort no one’s given him since he was crowned. “Have you really never seen the sea?”

“Only glimpses between the hulls of ships at port,” Victor says with a shrug. “I was born in the capitol, same as you, only some streets further down the hill.” They both smile, thinking of it that way. It’s a sentiment that doesn’t begin to cover the gulf of space and status between the palace and the depths of the city below. “My only travel as an adult has been to battlefields.”

It’s a sad thought, but then Yuuri hasn’t even left the palace walls in nearly fifteen years. He’s not much better. _At least we have now_ , he thinks, nuzzling into Victor’s collarbone. Here, they won’t have to think about battles and conflict. Here, they can stop being the king and the rebel prince. For once, they can just be Victor and Yuuri.

“I want to know more about your childhood,” Yuuri admits. They so rarely get the chance to really talk. He knows _who_ Victor is, but not what made him into the man Yuuri loves. 

But Victor doesn’t answer, and when Yuuri tilts his chin up to check, he finds Victor has already fallen asleep, breathing even and deep. _Another time_ , Yuuri reminds himself, and he nestles back into Victor’s arms to join his dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thar's smut in them thar hills!

Yuuri wakes the next morning to kisses dotting his face--forehead, cheek, nose. He’s warm and comfortable, and it takes him a moment to place that he’s not still in the throes of some happy dream, but in bed with Victor, wrapped up in his love’s arms. 

Fingers skim through Yuuri’s hair, pushing it gently back from his face, then journey down to trace his neck and shoulder. A palm caresses his chest, tracing the muscles beneath shirt and skin. It catches his nipple, making him shiver and open his eyes.

Little light falls through the window. It’s barely dawn outside, so Victor’s face is cast in shadow, but Yuuri can feel Victor’s lips curve against his cheek when he stirs. 

“Good morning, sire.” Victor’s voice is rough from sleep, and it cracks on the title. He traces Yuuri’s cheekbone with his thumb. “Sleep well?”

Yuuri considers the question and is surprised by the answer. “Yes. Even better than I expected.”

Victor hums. “Me too.” He leans in for a kiss.

His lips are dry, but Yuuri repairs that quickly enough, nipping at Victor’s lower lip before melting into his mouth, finding familiar welcome there when Victor grunts, pleased. His hands always find Yuuri’s head for their first kiss, cupping him close, fingers scratching at Yuuri’s scalp as if he’ll escape if Victor doesn’t secure him properly. 

Yuuri knows Victor’s kiss like he knows the beat of his own heart. Kissing, by now, is well-worn territory, but this one is different. Yuuri presses closer beneath the sheets and finds Victor already hot and hard, his early morning erection insistent against Yuuri’s thigh. Yuuri feels himself twitch, and realizes how thin the cloth barriers are now separating them.

“ _Yuuri_.” Victor’s hands slide to Yuuri’s waist, then further to cup the curve of his ass. “Is this okay?” He groans when Yuuri squirms closer in answer, pressing his own cock into the hollow of Victor’s hip.

It’s all different, but it’s not entirely new. They’ve had trysts before that lasted a little too long, journeyed a bit farther than planned. Yuuri knows the outline of Victor’s hard cock against his hip, the way he gasps and shudders and clutches at Yuuri’s back when he cums. This is the first time they’ve had a bed, though, the first time they’ve had the luxury of time. Yuuri’s distantly aware that this should make him nervous, but with his mind still fuzzy with sleep he has no space to be intimidated or worried. He traces the line of Victor’s spine beneath his shirt, then runs a hand up the back to splay over warm skin. Victor makes a sound like a broken man as his head falls against Yuuri’s shoulder.

“If you do that when I stroke your back, what noises will you have left for your climax?” Yuuri teases.

Victor muffles the next noise into his skin. “Cruel. You’re cruel to me.” He circles his hips and grins in satisfaction when it pulls a gasp from Yuuri. “Be cruel again.”

This time, when Yuuri runs his fingers down Victor’s back, he uses his nails.

Victor’s gasp is satisfying, and the way he arches into Yuuri’s touch even more so. “Don’t stop,” he whispers into Yuuri’s mouth, fumbling for the laces at his waist until, loosened, they pull free, and his hand can slip inside Yuuri’s shorts.

Now it’s Yuuri’s turn to cry out, breaking their kiss to hide his face against Victor’s shoulder. When Victor’s finger slides up his cock from base to tip, Yuuri bites. 

Things fall apart quickly after that. Yuuri paws at Victor’s pants, unable to get his fingers working on the laces until Victor takes pity and helps him. Yuuri takes him firmly in hand and feels Victor’s grip on his cock tighten in response. Their kisses turn biting, sloppy, as they work in tandem, sighs and moans echoing from one mouth to the other until neither can tell from whence the sound originated. 

Victor cums first when Yuuri’s fingers tighten in the newly-shorn hairs at the back of his skull, and Yuuri gets a brief moment of clarity to mourn that weren’t able to get this time while Victor’s hair was still long, when Yuuri could have wound that ponytail around his whole hand and _pulled_.

Then Victor’s grip on him firms, and he leans in to kiss Yuuri’s neck, nipping at hinge of his jaw. “Will you cum for me, sire?” he whispers hot into Yuuri’s ear, sparking the knot of arousal in Yuuri’s guts to grow white-hot. When Victor follows his question with a twist of his wrist, thumb swiping over the slick head of Yuuri’s cock, the answer spills hot across his palm, and Yuuri shudders and jerks against him, whimpering into Victor’s shoulder.

For a moment, they’re still and silent. The bedroom window is open, and a cool morning breeze sweeps through the gap, bringing with it the sound of birds. Then Victor laughs, holding up his soaked hand. 

“We may not have thought this though,” he says, sitting up to look around. There’s a wash basin set back against the wall, but the porcelain pitcher beside it sits upside down, empty. “I’m going to take care of this so we’re not sleeping on stiff sheets all week.”

“Good plan.” Victor slides from the bed, his soiled hand still held apart, and finds his cane with the clean one. Yuuri watches as he stands, then laughs as Victor’s shorts, still untied, promptly slide off his hips and hobble him. 

Seemingly unphased, Victor steps out of his underthings as they hit the ground and walks out. He wiggles his hips as he goes into the cabin in nothing but a long shirt, bare ass on display beneath.

When he hears the tap of Victor’s cane echoing down the hallway, Yuuri falls back onto his pillow, both hands over his face. Even now that Victor’s gone, his face is flushed and his heart is racing. Yuuri searches himself, wondering why. What could be making him nervous now?

The answer is, miraculously, nothing.

Yuuri isn’t anxious. He isn’t afraid. His cheeks are aching from the force of his smile, and his heart is pounding because--he’s happy. Joy crawls up from the base of his spine and spreads all the way out to his fingertips, until Yuuri’s so full of brightness he feels like he’ll explode with it. 

Flopping over, he buries his face in the pillow to muffle his shout. There’s more happiness welling up within him than he knows what to do with, more than he ever thought he’d get in his life, and he wants to roll in it. He stays in the bed even when he hears Victor knocking about in the next room, enfolding himself in his feelings so he can never forget.

-

When Yuuri finally drags himself from the residual warmth pooled in their-- _their_ \--bed, he finds Victor buried in the pantry, humming some snatches of a song Yuuri doesn’t recognize. Somewhere along his journey to the kitchen, he’s unfortunately found clean breeches.

“Is there anything edible in there?” Yuuri asks. When the topic of the cabin had come up, Takeshi had checked in with some of the grounds staff as to the state it was in. There’s meant to be food available--someone occasionally ventures out to check the property for poachers--but no one was clear on what it was, or how old it may be.

“It’s not so bad, actually.” There’s a sprinkle of either dust or flour on the side of Victor’s pants where he must have brushed up against one of the pantry shelves. His long shirt hangs untucked, the laces still loose at the neck, and the fabric gapes open and dips to show his chest.

Yuuri bites his lip, scolding himself. They’ve only just left the bed. They’re meant to be thinking about food.

Victor, apparently unaware Yuuri’s thoughts have drifted south of his stomach, continues: “It’s staples, mostly. There are several sacks of rice, some dried beans, and various pickles and preserves in the back, though the jars are so dusty I can’t be sure what’s inside.” 

He hefts a jar for example. The thick glass sides are coated in filth, and the contents swirl shades of red and black. It doesn’t look edible, much less appetizing, but Victor has a gleam in his eye like he considers this a challenge.

“There’s also a little jerky at the back,” he adds, wrinkling his nose, “but even I wouldn’t risk that unless I were truly starving. It’s either not been skinned right, or it’s molding.”

“I’ll pass, thanks,” Yuuri drawls. “Takeshi mentioned there were gardens out here in the past, and an orchard, but I don’t think there’s been a gardener out here to tend it since his uncle… left.” 

_Left_ , Yuuri says, instead of what almost left his lips: _deserted_. Takeshi’s uncle is merely one out of dozens of palace staff who fled to the rebellion in the years since Yuuri’s crowning.

“It’s worth a look.” Victor sets the mystery jar back on the shelf, takes up his cane, and leads the way toward the back door. “We haven’t had much chance to venture outside yet, anyway. There could be a multitude of opportunities waiting out here.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Yuuri mutters, but whatever’s outside, it can’t be worse than the nebulous contents of the Mystery Jar.

The cabin grounds are so overgrown, it’s difficult to make out where a garden would be. Yuuri climbs on top of the bench on the back porch to get a high ground view as he scans the property, while Victor makes intrigued noises.

“See anything?”

“There are patterns in the grass that indicate a rabbit’s den,” Victor says, pointing off in the direction of a small shed. “Probably birds as well. If we needed to, there’s plenty of wildlife here for hunting but--” he wrinkles his nose “--I’d rather not.”

Yuuri considers it. Fresh meat or fish would be nice, but then he considers the work associated with that--gutting, cleaning, not to mention the effort of cooking it. It would add a lot of unpleasantness to what’s meant to be a relaxing holiday for them both. 

“We don’t need that, I think,” he tells Victor, who smiles brightly when Yuuri agrees with him. “I’m sure we’ll be fine without needing to go that route.” 

Victor reaches for him, running his thumb over the back of Yuuri’s hand before raising it to his lips. “I think we’re going to be fine too.”

Yuuri’s heart swells so at the sentiment, his chest feels fit to burst. Stepping off the porch’s edge, Victor uses that hand to help Yuuri down after him, into the grass. “Now, if you were a garden, where might you be?”

Silly as it is, the question sparks something in Yuuri’s mind, and he turns, scanning the land around him again. His eyes alight on a familiar shape, and he points. “Over there, I think. I recognize that tree.”

“A memory?” 

Yuuri shakes his head. “No, an idea. Takeshi said ‘gardens and an _orchard_ ’. They ought to be near one another, if they’re designed like the kitchen garden at the palace, and that--” he gestures to a small hill to their left, “--is a peach tree.”

“Beautiful _and_ brilliant,” Victor murmurs and kisses his hand again before, releasing it, he leads the way through the rustling grass. 

The overgrowth reaches almost to Yuuri’s knees, whip-thin and a paler shade of green than the manicured lawns he’s used to from the palace. He keeps his eyes down, watching his step as he picks his way through the grass. He wonders what the area looked like in full bloom, tended to by a proper staff on a regular basis. If he took back the kingdom, he could hire someone-- He cuts himself off and whisks that thought away. It’s foolish to dream about such things. He’s not a child anymore; he knows there’s no fairytale ending waiting on his horizon. 

“Over here! I think I found it.” Victor’s exclamation draws Yuuri’s attention back to the present. He’s a few lengths ahead, glittering at Yuuri back over his shoulder. He’s loose-limbed and still smiling, looking very much at home out here on the land, his shirt still open and untucked over breeches that mold to his skin from calf to waist. The sway of his long shirt draws Yuuri’s eye back again and again to the curve of his backside.

Yuuri chides himself again for his distraction. Is something in the air out here making him into a sex-crazed fiend? He eyes the bright yellow pollen at the heart of a nearby flower with great suspicion and increases his pace away from the flowers to Victor’s side. 

What was once the garden is now barely distinguishable from the wild plants around it. Yuuri can see stones scattered in what must have been a deliberate border at one time. Now, they’ve been disrupted and cast off by time and nature. Thick vines with wide, flat leaves explode out from the center of the bed, overtaking all within reach, and twine around a few spritely, taller plants. 

Leaning on his cane, Victor nudges the leaves with his foot, checking beneath for fat, round produce. “Better than I expected,” he pronounces after a brief examination. “The hardier crops have overrun everything else, but that still leaves melon, tomatoes, and squash.” 

He pokes another leaf, then sniffs the air, and a smile stretches his face. “Garlic, too, I think.”

Yuuri _is_ listening, but his attention has wandered a bit. The trees he originally spotted are only a few strides away, and up close he can see that they’re laden with fruit. The peaches are the most robust, but there are also a few cherry trees behind those, and the sight makes Yuuri’s mouth water and his stomach growl. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was getting.

Many of the peaches will likely be picked over already by birds and insects, but the cherries may still have good bunches hidden away, tucked up out of reach on the interior of the tree. Yuuri’s struck by a need to find out, and the next thing he knows is the feeling of bark against his palms as he reaches up, pushing aside whip-thin branches and clumps of leaves, searching in the shade for the hidden jewels. 

He returns to the ground with a handful of plump, deep red fruits, and smiles. They’re ripe enough that just pulling them free has left his fingers dotted with purple juice. 

Victor, joining him, peers down at Yuuri’s prize. “What are these?” he asks.

“Cherries.” Victor’s face doesn’t change, not a flicker, and Yuuri feels a cavern of disbelief open within him--at first just a crack, then widening as Victor’s silence continues. “Have you never had cherries before?”

“Not that I can recall. Are they edible?”

“Of course. They’re fruit.” Victor’s expression is still blank, and Yuuri can do little more than blink. The palace has always grown cherries, since before Yuuri’s grandfather’s rein at least. He can remember playing outside as a young child, making piles from the falling blossoms between his chubby hands while Mari read beneath a nearby tree. His first royal portrait, from his infancy, had blossoming cherry trees painted in the background.

“You’ve really _never_ had a cherry?” Despite all the evidence, he still can’t believe it.

Victor shakes his head. His lips quirk, that almost cocky little smile he puts on to cover for all manner of things. “Is it really that surprising? Apples are common everywhere. Occasionally, the city markets get peaches in the summer, but they’re quite expensive. You and I _do_ come from different worlds.”

And Yuuri knows that, but somehow this tiny globe of proof hits harder than any conversation they’ve had about politics or experience. This small thing, so omnipresent in Yuuri’s life, has been entirely absent from Victor’s. 

Popping one of the cherries off its stem, he drops it into Victor’s palm. “Here,” he adds. “Be careful; there’s a pit.” He takes one for himself as well, but doesn’t eat it, holding it to his lips as he watches Victor examine the fruit, rolling it between his finger and thumb. 

Victor raises the cherry first to his nose, inspecting the aroma, then brings it to his mouth and takes a small bite. His face transforms. As Yuuri watches, his brow furrows, then clears. He chews the morsel and begins to smile, eyelids drifting until only a sliver of blue shines from behind his pale lashes. The cherries are almost overripe, and the red juice clings to his plump lower lip.

Yuuri’s mouth goes dry, the cherries in his hands forgotten. The look of pleasure on Victor’s face as he pops the rest of the cherry into his mouth has Yuuri caught, remembering-- _Victor’s gasp against Yuuri’s skin, the arch of his back as Yuuri’s hand twists in his hair, the stutter of his breath against Yuuri’s lips as he cums, fingers pressing bruises into the meat of Yuuri’s thighs._

“Do we have more of those?” Victor asks, but Yuuri’s handful has fallen to the ground as he stumbles forward, wrapping Victor’s shirt around his fist as he pulls him down into a searing kiss.

Victor’s hands find Yuuri’s waist, pulling him in closer, and they intertwine in the orchard like two sapling trees grown together into one.

When Yuuri pulls back, he licks his lips, tasting the sweetness of cherries. Victor rests his forehead against Yuuri’s, not letting him get too far. 

“I’ve got a delicious idea,” he says, peppering Yuuri’s mouth with light kisses between words. “Lets pick a few handfuls of those and then go back inside. We’re going to need something to keep our energy up.”

“No wonder they say you’re a brilliant strategist,” Yuuri murmurs, and Victor laughs brightly. 

“Now who’s flattering?”

“You must be contagious,” Yuuri teases, finally pulling away to forage for berries.

It only takes a minute of cool air between them before Yuuri starts to feel foolish once again. What is _wrong_ with him that makes him so desperate for Victor’s touch? Is this who he is now? Will he live the rest of his life this way? Climbing down from his tree with a bundle of cherries swaddled in his shirt, he glances over to find Victor openly staring at him--more specifically, at his thighs.

“See anything you like?” Yuuri asks, and the way Victor jumps, flush spilling over the bridge of his nose at being caught, is a warm balm over all of Yuuri’s questions. Maybe he’s in trouble, in the long run, but at least he’s not alone. 

Victor ducks in for another kiss, then nudges Yuuri with his shoulder, hands full of cane and fruit. “Are you ready to go back inside?” 

Yuuri’s more than ready. Later, he’ll be glad they stopped for food, but at the moment all he can feast upon is Victor. They make it back to the bedroom with surprising speed for two invalids, and they barely venture from the bed for the rest of the day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're catching up with what I've got pre-written at this point, but there isn't all that much left to go, so let's forge ahead!
> 
> There's porn in this one again. There's porn in all of them, after the first bit, but in case you missed it, here's your warning again: porn

Yuuri wakes the next morning damp with sweat. He attempts to kick off the blankets, only to find they’re already lying in a pile at the foot of the bed. Instead of wool and linen, there’s weight draped over him; Victor’s head is pillowed on his shoulder, his arm and leg flung across Yuuri’s body, and his hand curves up near Yuuri’s face as if reaching for a kiss in his sleep.

His eyes are still shut, pale lashes fluttering and breath emerging from parted lips in little puffs. Yuuri stares at those lips and feels his cheeks pink, remembering all the havoc that mouth had wreaked on his body the previous day.

But there’s no surge of hunger in his gut, no feeling of desperate _need_ now when he looks at those lips, only the warm curl of happiness at the center of his chest. With unfettered access to Victor’s body now, Yuuri reaches up and caresses the curve of his cheekbone.

At the touch, Victor wakes. Yuuri feels it before he sees any sign--the tension that threads through Victor’s muscles and the way his breathing changes, almost _too_ even. Yuuri waits, not moving his hand but resting as Victor adjusts, remembers where he is, and slowly opens his eyes.

When he sees Yuuri staring down at him, his lips curve in a sleepy smile, bright blue eyes still at half mast. “Well, good morning, sire,” he murmurs, then pauses to lick his lips. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“To daylight,” Yuuri answers. “It’s full sun outside already, and here we are still in bed.”

Victor raises his head a bit to peer at the window. As Yuuri promised, sunlight spills through the curtains. Through a gap they made for fresh air, bird song flits into the room. 

“Well, so it is.” Victor lays back down, and the arm slung over Yuuri’s chest tightens. “But I must ask--what else have we got to do?”

“Hmmm.” Yuuri pretends to consider it, mimicking Victor’s favorite gesture of tapping a finger on his lips. “Nothing, I suppose.”

“Then I’m afraid I refuse to move. I’m injured, you see. I need bed rest and _constant_ care.”

Yuuri snorts at the big doe eyes Victor is now batting his direction. “Constant supervision, more like,” he says, but he wraps his arms around Victor and holds him close. 

Victor raises his head, perhaps intending to banter more, but when he sees Yuuri’s expression, he stops. For a moment, Yuuri wonders if he’s hurt. His eyes widen, breath going short as he stares down at Yuuri’s face. But, quick as it came, it dissolves back into a smile, and he leans down for a kiss.

It’s light at first, hardly more than the feather touch of a breeze, but Yuuri has to crane his head to firm it, can’t let it slip away, and he feels Victor sigh into the kiss. That kiss leads to the next, then another. There’s still no desperation to it, no apprehension. They know each other’s bodies well now, so they take simple pleasure in holding on and rediscovering.

At some point, the kisses fade, and Victor’s head rests once more on Yuuri’s collarbone. Yuuri combs his fingers through the pale locks, admiring their fine sheen in the light. He pushes Victor’s forelock back, away from his face, and watches it flop forward once again.

“Do you miss when it was long?”

Yuuri pauses to consider. He hasn’t thought about it much. He was too relieved, seeing Victor, to know he was alive. “No,” he concludes, “but I do wish I’d gotten a chance to run my hands though it like this sooner. I’ve always thought it was striking--silver stands out in any crowd.”

“Silver?” Victor laughs lightly, his breath tickling Yuuri’s neck. “Is that what you’d call it?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Colorless,” Victor answers. There’s a touch of sharpness to the word, like the edge of a fruit knife, and Yuuri glances down to make sure it isn’t aimed at him. “That’s what it’s called, really. Don’t you have people at court with colorless hair?”

Yuuri frowns, turning his gaze back to the ceiling. There are shapes in the whorl of the wood planks, eyes and ghastly open mouths looming over him. “Most of my advisors have grey hair, if they have any left at all, but no one else near my age.”

“Really?” Victor sits up, but stays close, propping himself up on an elbow. His fingers linger on Yuuri’s bare chest, tracing the divots in his skin. “I’m told it used to be quite common. It’s a potion side-effect, you know.”

“What? Which potion?” 

Most potions had side-effects; that fact was common knowledge. Potions were, after all, liquid magic, and magic was never intended to be consumed by the non-magical. Even brews as simple as what Yuuri took to improve his vision for events were risky, which was why he’d always been reluctant to take his unless he absolutely must. A side-effect might strike at any time, and the impact was typically tied to whatever trait the potion had improved. For vision potions, people had been known to worsen their sight over time--or even lose it completely. The more a potion was used, the greater it’s risk, but frequency wasn’t a requirement. The effect could hit just as easily the first time it was used as the twenty-first.

Victor’s smile twists to something not entirely pleasant. “Cosmetic potions, meant to keep one looking much younger than their true age. I’m told it were very much in fashion in the nobility when they first came on the market.

“Then, a few years passed. People were wedded, children were born, and--” he tugs his own forelock, then tosses it back, “--the nobles found a glaring flaw in their secret plans. Suddenly, everyone could tell _exactly_ who in the crowd had been cheating time for vanity--by whose children were only ever painted in hats.”

The image is just silly enough to make Yuuri chuckle, and he considers his own family portrait hall in his memory. Now that he thinks on it through this lense, there may have been a cousin…

“That took it out of high-class circles, of course,” Victor continues, heedless of Yuuri’s preoccupation, “but not off the market. It stays rather popular even now with… certain types of women.”

Because he’s so busy trying to remember the cousin’s name -- Maru? Masha? -- it takes that information a moment to sink in. Then, Yuuri flushes. 

“Oh.”

Victor doesn’t look embarrassed by the information, nor does he seem defensive. His expression is mild, verging on dreamy, and he’s looking off toward the window, as if thinking of something far away, long passed. 

Well, if Victor doesn’t mind, then Yuuri won’t either. If there’s one thing he’s learning on this holiday, time and again, it’s that despite their similarities in some arenas, he and Victor have lead wildly different lives. Who is he to pass judgement on how Victor’s mother lived? There’s likely more at play than he could possibly understand.

He struggles to think of something to say--what’s the correct way to respond to learning your lover’s mother was a prostitute?--but, just then, his stomach gurgles. 

Grinning, Victor rolls onto his side and puts his hand on Yuuri’s stomach. “Oh no,” he teases. “I do believe that’s a bell ringing to summon us from bed.” 

“It doesn’t sound much like a bell to me.” Yuuri covers his face with his hands to hide his dismay. “More like a nosy relative poking her head where she’s not wanted.”

But, now that he’s aware of it, he _is_ hungry. They’d eaten little the previous day aside from handfuls of cherries--dots of dark red juice still stain the blankets around them--and they’d certainly been active enough to work up an appetite. He hadn’t eaten much the day prior, either, so nervous about his trip out to the cabin. He’s overdue for a good meal.

Whether he’ll be able to get that from the storage larder here remains to be seen.

“Come on, then.” Victor rolls from the bed, lean and unabashedly nude, aside from the stark white bandage marring the bottom of his ribcage. He pulls his shirt on over his head, stretching in a manner that outlines each muscle column of his back. “Let’s feed the little bell so it doesn’t ring so loudly.”

Yuuri’s beginning to have second thoughts about leaving the bed, but his stomach protests again--quieter this time--and he reluctantly rolls off the bed and goes in search of his own pants. 

He finds them draped over the side of the wash basin, four purple, finger-shaped streaks running over the front of them near his hips. Oh, well. If he leaves his shirt loose, it will cover most of the evidence.

By the time he’s fully dressed, his hair slicked with water to force it into a reasonable shape, Victor is already buried in the pantry once again. Though they’ve only just left the bed, Yuuri steps up behind Victor, arms around his waist, and hooks his chin on his lover’s shoulder for a look at the shelves. 

“What do you think?” Victor asks, leaning subtly into the embrace. 

Yuuri nuzzles into his skin. “I don’t know; I can’t cook.” As he says it, a stab of apprehension sparks through him. “Wait--can you?”

Victor’s shoulders shake when he chuckles, and he covers Yuuri’s hands with his own. “Yes. I wouldn’t have survived this long if I couldn’t. Did you think we might starve to death for a moment there?”

“We could survive a few days off the garden, but I _was_ reconsidering sending Yuuko home again.”

“Yes, I’m sure Yuuko would have had a marvelous time here with us yesterday.”

Flushing, Yuuri hides his face between Victor’s shoulder blades and hugs him tighter. Yuuko’s presence in the cabin would certainly have dampened their recreational activities. 

“Perhaps not,” he mumbles. 

“Well, either way, we won’t go hungry. Mind you, it won’t be anything like the dishes you get in the palace, but it will be food.”

Yuuri’s stomach growls again. “Food is a good start.”

Reaching to the rear shelves, Victor pulls out a bag of rice and peers inside. “Could you pick some vegetables from the garden for me.”

“As you wish.” Yuuri rubs his nose on Victor’s back one last time, then lets him go.

The day is still young, and there’s a cool breeze rustling the fruit trees as Yuuri approaches the orchard. Compared to the warmth of the previous two days, this one feels mild. The grass is wet beneath his bare feet, and the air smells damp, but Yuuri never noticed rain in the night. It must have been a quiet storm -- or he and Victor were even louder than he imagined.

He picks only two tomatoes and two of the plump, green gourds, reluctant to take too much if it turns out they need more later. Making a bowl of his shirt, he bundles up his catch along with a single ripe peach foraged from the inner branches of the largest tree. 

When he pushes the back door open, the cabin is already filled with the smell of cooking. There’s a warm, rich aroma originating from a pot on the stove, bubbling away. Victor stands at the table, his back to Yuuri, sharpening a knife, but he turns at the sound of the door, brightening. 

“I wasn’t sure how much to get,” Yuuri hedges before dropping his finds on the table.

Leaning over, Victor deposits a kiss on Yuuri’s forehead. “These are perfect, thank you.” 

Yuuri doesn’t reply, ridiculously overcome by the simple gesture of that kiss, that gratitude. His forehead tingles with the memory of Victor’s lips, and he resists the urge to touch it. 

With nothing to do, Yuuri takes a step back and simply watches Victor at work. He’s smoothly competent as he disassembles the vegetables, removing the seeds and dissecting the meat of them. Yuuri watches his hands work, so confident with a knife, and wonders what Victor might be like on a battlefield. Is he so calm in using a similar tool to defend himself, to end a life? It’s a warming idea at first, coming with a strange pride that Victor looks after himself and his forces so well. Then, memory follows with an ice-cold reminder that the men after Victor’s throat fight under Yuuri’s banner.

It seems they can never be free of that cloud.

To distract himself, Yuuri checks the pot on the stove, where the rice is already cooking. He glances with some apprehension at the shelf nearby, where one of the mystery jars from the pantry waits, open, a spoon protruding from the rim. Yuuri puts his face over the pot and inhales deeply.

The scent of boiling rice brings a smile to his face, and it also stirs something--something long forgotten. Chasing it, he lowers himself onto the kitchen floor.

“Yuuri? Are you well?”

Yuuri shakes his head, then nods, then shakes again. Running his fingers over the wooden floor, feeling the gaps and divots, he frowns to himself. He hears the tap of Victor’s cane and looks up to find the other man standing in front of him, brows creased and hand out to help Yuuri to his feet. He doesn’t take it.

“Nothing’s wrong. I think I was… remembering something.”

“Something bad?”

“No.” Yuuri smiles, but it’s fleeting, and he can tell it fails to reassure. “It hit me when you started cooking, this familiar feeling.” He traces the shapes in the wood beneath him again. “I have this small memory of sitting on this floor. There was a dog, and--” he pauses. His eyes feel warm, threatening him with the edge of tears, but nothing bubbles to the surface. It’s still too distant for him to connect. 

He points toward the stove. “My mother was there. I remember her skirts swishing, being warm, the smell of rice.” He shrugs and stares down at the floor. “As I said, not much of a memory.”

“It sounds like a happy one to me.” Yuuri looks up and finds Victor smiling, leaning heavily on his cane. He stretches out his hand again, and his time Yuuri takes it, though he uses his own power to move himself to his feet. 

“I’d forgotten my mother knew how to cook,” Yuuri admits, “but that’s a bit funny, isn’t it? When I think about it, it makes sense. That’s why I grew up around Yuuko so much; her mother worked in the kitchens, and _my_ mama was often in there too.” He pauses, considering the evidence. “It’s strange for a queen to make her own food, though. It didn’t fit with what I learned in lessons.”

“Real people are always more complicated than what we’re taught in lessons.” 

Yuuri nods, but he’s still trapped in his own mind. Now that he remembers this, he can’t stop questioning it. Is it a real memory? If so, how had he forgotten it, and why? When Yuuri was young and still believed he had a say in things, he had sometimes brought up laws and norms he’d learned from his parents while meeting with his advisors. Often, he’d been told the law he mentioned didn’t exist, or else that he misunderstood it. He has a history of faulty memories. Could this be another?

“My mama was never much of a cook,” Victor says, and the words pull Yuuri back into the present. After what was said earlier, Yuuri has a lot of questions about Victor’s past. It’s as if Victor can sense that Yuuri had wandered off, and he’s using his own story as a peace offering to bring them back to the same place. 

“She did her best with what she had, but for her cooking was always about eating enough so you weren’t hungry, and that was it.” Victor grins and licks his lips, remembering. “The first thing I ever filched from someone else on the street was a pastry. It looked and tasted like nothing I’d ever had before. I didn’t even know food could be like that.”

Something in Victor’s pot hisses, and he turns his attention back to stirring as he continues. “Your mother must have really enjoyed making food, since she didn’t need to. She wanted to.”

“I suppose so.” Yuuri wishes he knew more about it. Was his mother a good cook? He’d like to think so, but he has no evidence, no memory of what she made beyond that one grainy image. 

Victor chuckles softly as he stirs, and Yuuri bumps his shoulder with his own. In the pot, water is bubbling away, grains of ghostly white dancing beneath the surface.

“I was wondering if our mothers would have gotten along,” Victor admits, “but then it occurred to me how silly that thought was. They never would have had a chance to meet each other.”

 _We probably wouldn’t have met either,_ Yuuri thinks. The idea makes his chest ache. If his parents were alive, everything would be different. If his parents were still ruling, there would be no need for the Rebel Prince Victor and no uprising. Yuuri would return to what he was always meant to be: a quiet second son, a spare in Mari’s shadow. If he had a spell to make that happen, would having his family back be worth giving up Victor?

 _Yes_ , he thinks. Yes, but he’d rather not consider it.

Right now, Victor is still waiting for Yuuri to respond. His shoulders are tight with worry, and Yuuri realizes that he’s nervous that he may have offended Yuuri by relating the queen to a prostitute.

In answer, Yuuri slips his arm around Victor’s waist, nuzzling into his shoulder. “I wish I could tell you they’d be great friends, but I honestly don’t recall what my mother was like well enough to say. I loved her. I hope you would have too.”

Releasing the spoon, Victor covers Yuuri’s hand with his own and turns, pressing their foreheads together. “I’m sure I would. I’ve heard she was kind. They both were.”

Yuuri holds onto him tighter, hiding his face, and Victor lets him.

The meal goes well as could be expected. After two days with markedly little to eat, Yuuri is hungry enough he’d be impressed by a slice of bread and and some limp carrots. What Victor actually produces involves roasted vegetables, perfectly cooked rice, and fragrant spices. The dubious mystery jar from the pantry turns out to contain spiced, preserved peaches--juicy, sticky, and dripping with sweet honey. Between them, they eat every last bite and finish up licking the peach residue from their fingertips.

Their hands are still sticky when they twine their fingers together and venture out onto the porch once more. Seated side by side on the bench outside, bellies full, they doze in the warmth of the sun for some time. 

When Yuuri wakes, he finds his head pillowed on Victor’s shoulder. Awake, Victor notices Yuuri stirring and smiles down at him before returning his gaze to the horizon ahead. The sun is still high above them, and the whole world has that bruised fuzziness around the edges, the confusion of mid-day sleep.

Yuuri yawns and stretches, nuzzling into Victor’s shoulder again. He could curl up here in a beam of sunlight like a sleek kitchen cat, stretch out against Victor’s body, and never leave, but they’ve spent so much time in bed already. He’s trying to motivate himself to get up when Victor drapes an arm over him, pulling him in tight again. 

Victor’s lips rustle Yuuri’s hair as he speaks. “It’s a lovely day. Would you mind exploring a bit?”

He _would_ , but Yuuri doesn’t want to be the heavy chain holding Victor to the cabin. There’s still time for them to relax together -- though Yuuri has a slight twinge at that thought now. Time is passing. They won’t be able to hold onto this forever. 

“Whatever you’d like.” Yuuri tries to sound light about it, despite his concerns, but he when Victor pulls his arm away and sits up, Yuuri feels something in his chest stretch, yearning toward Victor’s touch already. 

When he gets to his feet, Victor takes his hand. The sweep of his thumb over Yuuri’s skin helps to dull the ache. 

They pass the next couple of hours quietly, roaming the back gardens. Finding an upended wooden bucket near the porch, they gather more ripe food in the orchard to store inside before venturing into the woods nearby, never far from one another. 

The trees overhead form a parasol that spots the forest floor like a cat, light and dark peppered over the damp ground. It smells of rich earth in the woods, and their feet sink into the loam. At times, Victor reaches for Yuuri’s arm to support himself as his cane sinks into the softer places in the earth. 

“Oh, there’s an idea,” Victor exclaims suddenly, pointing, and Yuuri follows the line of his arm to a cluster of crooked white mushrooms bursting up between the roots of a tree. “That would make an excellent addition to the supplies in the cabin.”

“Is it safe?” Yuuri asks, dubious. Mushrooms are a frequent ingredient in potions -- the nasty kind that Yuuri has to test his food for at the palace.

“These are edible. They have a nice, meaty flavor, too. I think you’ll like them.”

Nodding, Yuuri releases Victor to add the mushrooms to the bucket. With the first spongy white cap in hand, he pauses, brushing the specks of dirt off the stem. He’s struck by how easily he believes Victor and trusts him. Oddly enough, it helps that he knows Victor had intended to kill him, once upon a time. If Victor wanted Yuuri dead, he could kill him with a word much more swiftly than a mushroom, and Yuuri snorts at that thought. 

“Something wrong?”

“No.” Yuuri adds the mushroom to the bucket, then stoops to collect the others. “Just a silly thought. It’s not worth sharing.”

“I doubt that,” Victor says with a smile, leaning on one of the trees more than his cane. Once Yuuri’s close enough, Victor reaches for his hand again. 

They take a looping route back to the cabin, finding more mushrooms along the way. Yuuri’s hopelessly turned around, but Victor seems confident in their trajectory, so Yuuri relies on his instinct. The forest is peaceful. To Yuuri, it feels deserted except for the two of them, but occasionally Victor points to something -- signs of a fox den, or a bird nest wedged high on a branch above them. Though there are no other humans around, _life_ is everywhere, even when Yuuri can’t see it.

After some time, the woods open back up to daylight, and they step out into the fields in front of the cabin. Yuuri pauses there, lingering at the treeline. From the front, the cabin still doesn’t look that impressive. He can see the path his carriage had taken up to the door. Was that really only days ago? Beyond the wheel ruts in the grass, a small wooden shed stands off, away from the house. He hadn’t even noticed that when he arrived, but then he was a little distracted at the time.

“What’s do you think is in there?” Victor asks, noticing the building himself. “Anything useful?”

“I’m not sure.” Yuuri tugs his hand. The bucket hanging from his other arm is getting heavy. “Let’s put the food inside, then we can take a closer look.”

After getting the bucket settled in the kitchen, they go back out to investigate the shed. It’s certainly not much to look at from the outside -- a bit ramshackle, but upright. Yuuri scans the walls and roof but doesn’t see any indication the dark planks are in danger of collapse.

“Gardening supplies, perhaps?” Victor suggests. 

“There’s only one way to find out.” The latch creaks when Yuuri pushes it, orange rust flaking off on his hand, but the iron gives and the door groans open when Yuuri pulls. Along with the door comes a sharp, metallic smell, but more notable than that is the rush of _heat_ that pours out. It slams Yuuri in the face with a wall of memory, and he steps back, into Victor’s chest.

“Yuuri?” Victor moves, craning to see past him without letting go. “What is it?”

Set at the center of the shack is a pool, whisps of steam rising from the surface in the cooling evening air. The edges are decorated with colorful, attractive rocks, but aside from that it’s a natural space -- and a familiar one.

“It’s a hot spring.” Yuuri whispers, so as not to disturb the ghosts still with him in the room. “I’ve been here before. I remember -- with my father. I didn’t know that this was _here_.” Frustration creeps into his voice. “I always remembered bathing in the spring with him, but I don’t know where it was. I never even _wondered_ where it was-- and it was here the whole time!”

He steps inside, awed and overwhelmed by the distant memories this room brings back to life. There is the big blue rock against which his father liked to scratch his shoulders, relaxing in the warm pool. It looks smaller, now, than Yuuri remembered it. He touches his toe to another rock, red with striping along the side, and it moves slightly. Once, he had perched there, kicking his feet in the water, nervous of getting all the way in though his father smiled and held out his arms.

Yuuri’s jostling, his small weight, had been enough to knock the rock loose. Yuuri had tumbled into the water, head first, and the rock followed. 

King Toshiya had scooped him up before Yuuri could even take a breath. He had curled into the bare skin of his father’s chest, shaking and wailing, until the fear subsided. When it passed, he’d discovered he was in the water still and realized, despite the unpleasant start, that it was nothing to be afraid of -- not with his father’s arms holding him so tightly.

A rustling behind him reminds Yuuri that he’s not alone, and he turns to find Victor stooped over, his untied trousers already sagging to his knees. “Wh-- What are you doing?”

Victor looks at him like Yuuri’s suddenly speaking another language. “I’m going to go for a dip in the spring,” he says slowly. “Aren’t these meant to be good for healing?”

“It is, but--” Yuuri feels like half his thoughts are still stuck in the past. The other half are dedicated to admiring the columns of muscle that make up the front of Victor’s thigh. Victor pulls up his shirt, and Yuuri’s eyes fall to the white cloth bandage still criss-crossing his side. Victor has yet to remove it in Yuuri’s sight. 

He pulls the end of it free now, but turns his back to Yuuri. Yuuri’s heart clenches. Though Victor is trying to hide the wound, he’s probably unaware that his back is a mottled purple and red. The hit he took not only cut him open, it bruised and battered him throughout.

“Come on, then,” Victor says, jovial. “I’m sure this will be good for both of us.”

How could Yuuri say no? He understands why Victor is hiding his injury--in a way, it’s Yuuri’s fault. It’s Yuuri’s army out there fighting the rebellion. Someone out there, going into battle in _his_ name, has nearly killed his lover. 

And the man will probably get a medal for it.

Rather than speak his yes, Yuuri takes off his shirt. When he looks up again, breeches pooling around his ankles on the damp earthen floor, Victor has already slipped into the water up to his chest. He’s leaned back against the side of the pool, arms stretched out to either side. His head his tilted back; eyes closed, he displays the pale line of his throat, his deep breaths causing not a ripple in the pool. 

Yuuri pauses, torn between his desire to join and a competing urge to simply let Victor be at peace. Victor’s eyes slit open, bluer than the waters, and his lips curl. He raises his fingers in a come-hither gesture, and Yuuri drops his shirt on the ground, forgotten. 

When his toes dip into the warm waters, Yuuri can already feel the heat spreading through him, pulling him toward relaxation. He takes two steps in and slides down into Victor’s arms. The hot spring embraces him as much as Victor does, warmth curling around him. The stone sides of the pool are the same temperature as the air, and Yuuri can completely understand why Victor seemed to just collapse into the water. He can’t resist the impulse to lean in himself, head lolling back against the stone and Victor’s bicep.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Victor’s damp fingers card through his hair, pushing the longer strands back from Yuuri’s face.

“You have the most wonderful ideas,” Yuuri admits, smiling when Victor responds with a delicate kiss on his forehead. “This is easily the best bath I’ve ever taken.”

Victor chuckles. “I think we may be getting spoiled right now. All this time together, and now this? How will we ever return?”

A fist curls around Yuuri’s heart, and he tries to chase it away by sinking deeper in the pool. Victor’s tone is light, but his words are too honest. 

Thankfully, Yuuri has the gentle touch of Victor’s hand to distract him just a moment longer. From Yuuri’s hair, his fingers glide down his neck to the knot at the top of his spine. Yuuri closes his eyes, embracing the sensations when Victor traces the column of his throat, lingering with a thumb that sweeps Yuuri’s collarbones. He can feel himself twitch beneath the water, his body responding to Victor’s now-familiar hands, and he sighs out a mixture of both relaxation and annoyance. Though his urges have calmed compared to the first days here, it seems his cock is still all too ready to take every opportunity he can get. The hot spring isn’t the place for this, and yet--

Yuuri opens his eyes and finds Victor’s face a hair’s breadth from his own. Silver lashes drift toward high cheekbones, and Victor licks his lips. Immersed in the water, surrounded by wisps of steam, he looks like some mythical aquatic creature that tempts men to drown. Yuuri’s all too happy to go down with him, as ever. 

He’s not sure which of them leans into the kiss first, but he suspects later that he started it. He’s shivering, the bare skin of his back abruptly exposed to the cooler air as he straddles Victor’s lap, thighs straining to fit across Victor’s. The kiss devours, and Victor’s fingers press into Yuuri’s ribs above his waist before sliding down to cup his hips beneath the water.

Yuuri moans into the kiss, threading his fingers through Victor’s hair to scratch at his scalp. He rocks in Victor’s lap, and each stir of his hips sends eddies skidding along the surface of the pool. Beneath the veil of water and steam, they’re hidden from view, and he jolts each time his cock meets Victor’s own arousal or skims the tense muscles of his stomach.

He can feel sweat beading on his forehead when Victor mouths at his throat, and he digs his fingers into Victor’s shoulders. He’s flush, overheated as if he’d been running for hours in the summer swelter, and they’re both panting. 

“ _Yuuri_.” Despite the heat, Yuuri shivers at the way Victor moans his name, not pained but ecstatic. “ _God,_ ” he gasps, “you’re perfect.”

Such a ridiculous statement, and yet it rings true right now. With Yuuri straddling his thighs, Victor for once has to tilt his head up to meet Yuuri’s eyes. The look on his face -- strands of silver stuck to his skin, eyes more brightly blue that the afternoon sea -- is one of clear, undeniable adoration.

Yuuri’s never felt more _enough_ than he is in this moment. 

Leaning in, he pulls another gasping kiss from Victor, then another, rocking against him and drinking in the little sounds he earns with every movement. When Victor’s hand curls around his cock, his rhythm stutters, nails skidding over the nape of Victor’s neck. He seizes Victor’s plump lower lip between his teeth.

Victor whines, the sound echoing off the walls of the shed and amplifying off the water. “ _Yuuri_. Yuuri, please.”

Oh. _Please_. Something about that word opens up a hunger in Yuuri’s gut that he never knew he possessed. He wants to hear it again and again, until that’s the only word that emerges from Victor’s lips again aside from -- perhaps -- Yuuri’s name. 

He wraps his hand around Victor’s cock, grip so tight it’s almost punishing, and knows he’s hit the mark when Victor whimpers, eyes scrunching as his head falls back against the stones, injury stopped only by Yuuri’s palm waiting to catch him. 

“Ah-- Yuuri, _yes_.” Ripples skid across the water’s surface. The movement of Yuuri’s arm is the only other sign of what’s transpiring below, even as Victor arches. His chest lifts free of the hot spring’s embrace, and Yuuri dips in to taste a nipple, suckling off the mineral taste of the medicinal waters until Victor is writhing, twisting uncontrollably beneath Yuuri. 

When he comes, he makes a sound of defeat.

Victor’s chest heaves as he catches his breath, and Yuuri watches it, fascinated. His arousal is still burning, cock clamoring for its turn, but there’s another feeling humming under his skin -- pride, and a different sort of satisfaction. Victor is flushed and gorgeous, wrecked, and Yuuri traces the path of a drop of water that escapes the pool at his collarbone and runs rivulet down the line of his chest. 

When Victor raises his head, his eyes are dazed, expression fuzzy. His fingers trace little swirls on Yuuri’s skin that make him _itch_ for something more. 

Yuuri’s gaze falls to the water between their stomachs, where Victor’s spend swirls, floating to the surface. “You made a mess,” Yuuri points out flatly, and Victor looks down, hands tightening on Yuuri’s hips.

“So I did. Is that my fault or yours, though?”

Yuuri shrugs. Victor’s lips are curling now, a smug look he hasn’t earned yet -- at least not today -- and his fingers are digging into the flesh of Yuuri’s ass now, kneading as he shifts between Yuuri’s knees. 

“Do you remember earlier,” Victor begins slyly, “when you said I have the best ideas?”

“I do--”

The rest of what Yuuri intended to say is cut off when Victor _lifts_ him -- easy enough in the water, but he doesn’t stop there -- and in a breath Yuuri is perched on the edge of the pool, seated on the warm rocks with legs still dangling in the spring. 

He shivers, suddenly pushed into the cooler air, and feels his skin prickle at the contrast. “What?” 

Victor presses a finger to Yuuri’s lips. His other hand, resting on Yuuri’s knee, slides upward, fingers kneading at the muscle and flesh of Yuuri’s inner thigh. “Relax now,” he murmurs, stepping closer to make a space for himself between Yuuri’s splayed legs. “Let me return the favor.”

It’s impossible to deny Victor anything, especially like this. His hair, damp, is swept to the side, and droplets cling to his silver lashes. He looks up at Yuuri from beneath them, searing blue, and once again Yuuri has that twisting sensation low in his gut, a cocktail of fear and desire in equal parts. Victor is inhumanly beautiful. He looks like something that could rise from the pool to tear Yuuri apart -- and devour him. 

Victor’s finger trips down the side of Yuuri’s cock, and he hisses, nerves falling quickly back into lust. He’s still aching from the tease of before. When Victor places one hand on Yuuri’s chest, pushing him back, Yuuri goes easily, propping himself up on his arms.

“Perfect,” Victor sighs again, running his hands up Yuuri’s thighs and trailing trickles of hot water with them. “I’ve changed my mind about the bed. I’d prefer to stay here instead.”

“In the pool?” Yuuri asks, dumbfounded.

“No, between your legs.” Victor punctuates his statement with a kiss to each thigh, and Yuuri sucks in a shuddering breath. Victor’s eyes seem to flash in the moment before his head lowers again -- and the sharp, sucking kiss he deposits on the fleshiest part of Yuuri’s thigh makes his head fall back, a loud moan pulled from his throat at the stinging pleasure. 

When Victor pulls off, Yuuri’s skin throbs. He unclenches his hands which, fallen onto Victor’s shoulders, had gripped too tightly. 

“I don’t mind,” Victor says, nuzzling Yuuri’s thigh. “You can hold onto me as hard as you like.”

It’s good permission to have in the seconds before Victor slides his lips down Yuuri’s cock. His shout echoes off the walls of the shed, amplified by the pool, and his hands clamp down once again. The heat of Victor’s slick tongue plays havoc with Yuuri’s skin, the rest of him still speckled with chill bumps after leaving the bath. When Yuuri manages to pry his eyes open again, he sees only ceiling. He’s arched, head thrown back, lost in the feeling of Victor’s mouth around him.

When he does manage to look down, the sight makes his guts twist -- Victor’s eyes slitted, his plump lips swallowing Yuuri’s cock, one of Yuuri’s hands coiled in his hair. He looks as if he’s getting just as much pleasure out of this as Yuuri is. Not possible. Then, he notices Yuuri looking and _moans_. His fingers press into the flesh of Yuuri’s thighs, then slide up to his hips to squeeze, and the hot, languid pressure of his lips becomes a slow slide. 

It’s a world apart from their frenzied meetings in balcony alcoves, and so Yuuri can’t be blamed if he comes undone too quickly or shouts too loudly. For once, no one but his lover is around to hear him.

After, Victor lingers, pillowing his head on Yuuri’s thigh as Yuuri strokes gentle fingers through his silver hair where it curls behind his ears from the damp. Only when Yuuri’s toes soften and prune does he begin to draw away. Victor lets him pull his legs from the pool before climbing out himself, his back to Yuuri again as he re-dresses his wound. 

They return to the house with their hands joined and make a small, slow meal of fruits and small delights from the jars in the pantry, forgoing cutlery and feeding each other by hand instead. It occurs to Yuuri that he ought to feel silly, behaving this way, but he doesn’t, not with Victor at his side with a soft, doe-eyed smile and such clever hands. 

When night falls over the cabin and the crickets begin to croon outside, they end the day as it started, curled around one another in the huge bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what the world needs more of now, right? Right??

Yuuri wakes the next morning with a chill prickling at his skin. They’d opened the window the night before to hear the nightbird songs, but now there’s a cool morning breeze winding its way through the gap, and the summer sheets on the bed are no longer sufficient. 

Throwing out his arm, Yuuri reaches for the warm body he now knows will be waiting--and comes up empty. The other side of the bed is cool, with barely an indent left in the pillow to show someone else was once there.

“Victor?” 

The cabin is silent around him. No reply. No tap of Victor’s cane on the wood floor. Yuuri sits up, searching around him for a sign.

Nothing. Victor’s clothes are gone from the hanger, and his boots are no longer slumped on the floor. For a brief, heart-wrenching moment, Yuuri wonders if he was never here. Was it all some sort of fevered dream? Could Yuuri simply have wanted it so badly that he tricked his own mind?

He slides to the edge of the bed and staggers from the room on aching, clumsy feet, not bothering to dress beyond his underpants despite the chilly morning. The main cabin, too, is empty and silent, and Yuuri feels something hard rising from his chest, beginning to solidify in his throat.

The back door is ajar. Yuuri wouldn’t have done that.

He pushes it open and steps out onto the patio. Victor looks up, smiling, from the bench beside the door. “Oh, good morning,” he says. “I didn’t even hear you moving around. Would you like some tea?” He gestures to a pot resting on the woven table in front of him. Steam rises from the spout, and from the simple clay mug beside it. Another mug waits nearby, empty, and a small bowl of freshly-harvested fruit.

Yuuri’s worry drains from him in such a flood, he feels weak. He reaches for the side of the bench, and Victor scoots over to make room so Yuuri can sit. “I didn’t expect you up so early,” he says. He sounds a bit dazed to his own ears, but Victor doesn’t seem to notice.

He reaches for the tea pot and pours while Yuuri holds his cup. “I know I’m supposed to be resting,” Victor confesses, “but I’m not used to lying around so much. After a few days of relaxing, my heart is yearning for a little excitement again.” His smile twists as he adds, “Maybe not so exciting as getting stabbed again. But, something aside from the cabin and the bed--not that the bed isn’t _wonderful_.”

Yuuri can’t decide whether to fret or blush, so instead he tries to cover both by raising the tea to his lips, blowing on the surface to cool it faster, and gazes out on the gardens and the sea beyond. It promises to be a pleasant day. The sky is already cloudless, bright blue and sunny despite the cool air, and everything outside is green and thriving. Something rustles in the tall grass, and Yuuri remembers Victor mentioning rabbits. They’re probably angry at Victor and Yuuri now for stealing the fresh fruit that usually rots and falls to the ground.

Yuuri’s skin prickles in spite of the warm mug in his hands, and he shivers, pressing closer to Victor’s side. In his rush to find where Victor went, he hadn’t bothered to dress, while Victor has clearly been awake for some time, fully dressed and already in boots.

When Yuuri cuddles in, Victor loops an arm around his waist and tugs him closer until, instead of the bench, Yuuri is perched on one of Victor’s thighs. He squirms and tries to hide his face again. It’s _warm_ , and he does like being close, but he’s not sure he likes this in particular. He hasn’t sat on anyone’s lap in… fifteen years, nearly. A nasty voice in his head is muttering things about Yuuri he’d rather not hear. 

“Breakfast?” Victor offers, and Yuuri turns back to feel the plump flesh of a cherry pressed against his lips. He squirms again, back onto the bench, and gently pushes Victor’s arm away.

“I can feed myself.” His face must be red. He can feel how hot his skin is. When he looks down, even his chest is rosy. 

Victor pops the cherry into his own mouth and slides the bowl over on the table, within Yuuri’s reach. “It didn’t bother you last night.”

“Last night was--” _different_ , he doesn’t need to say. Obviously it was different. There are certain things that come much easier in the dark of a long day, languid with affection and the buzz of a recent orgasm. There’s a specific sort of difficulty in doing the same things on an early morning. 

Victor doesn’t say anything, only reaches for the bowl again and eats another cherry, but his lower lip sticks out, and his eyes are stormy.

The last thing Yuuri wanted this morning was to hurt him. Overhead, a sea bird screams, and Yuuri looks out at the bright blue horizon between the trees. “We can go to the beach today, if you like. It’s not the cabin or the bed.”

He reaches for Victor’s free hand as he says it, twining their fingers together on top of his thigh, and Victor’s smile slowly reappears. “I _have_ been promised a walk on the beach,” he says slyly, “but I’ll admit I’m remembering the advantages of the bedroom.”

“Well, it’s a private beach, you know.” Yuuri rests his head on Victor’s shoulder, his face angled toward the water in case his cheeks betray him again when he’s trying so hard to tease. “Everything around us is solely property of the king.”

“Yuuri… are you implying we might do something untoward on the king’s private land?”

“We already did,” Yuuri mutters, but he can’t find the words for anything else he wants to add. That works in his favor, though, as Victor’s too preoccupied kissing him to discuss it further.

-

Yuuri isn’t expecting the thrill he gets when he leaves the cabin to walk to the beach, Victor’s hand warm in his own. Private land or no, it feels very public to step out like this, together, as if they’re making a formal appearance rather than meandering down to the shore on a royal preserve. 

The weather is truly gorgeous. The sky is a vibrant shade of blue, and where it meets the sea on the far horizon, the transition is nearly seamless. Beneath their feet, the path down to the shore is almost indistinguishable from the field around it, overgrown with weeds and hardy flowers as nature overtakes the work of man. Tall grass reaches for the path, swaying in the wind and brushing Yuuri’s knees as they go. A few daring locusts cross the stone ahead of them, and at one point, a curious bunny.

Yuuri squeezes Victor’s hand, trying to get his attention without frightening the creature off, but Victor is staring into the distance as if lost in a dream. He’s focused on the sand ahead of them, the smooth blue of the horizon, and the crashing waves. His eyes are wide, and the sea breeze blows his hair across his face, making him look younger, more naive. Yuuri’s breath catches, and he loses track of the rabbit. He might see a hundred rabbits before he dies, but only one Victor. 

As they get closer to the water, the grass draws back, replaced by scrubby little bushes and windswept mounds of sand. Victor picks up his pace, tugging eagerly at Yuuri’s hand, urging him on to the shore. When they reach the end of the path, Yuuri releases him. He expects Victor to storm on and rush toward the sea.

Instead, he stops and turns back, waiting for Yuuri. 

Yuuri plops down in the sand and pulls off his boots. “You ought to remove yours too,” he explains, feeling Victor’s eyes still on him. “It’s better for a walk in the sand.”

“Probably not worth the trouble.” Victor scowls down at his own boots, with their laces that climb to his knees. When Yuuri goes to stand, Victor’s hand is outstretched, ready to help him to his feet. 

The sensation of sand grains creeping between his toes brings a grin to Yuuri’s face. The sun is still low enough in the sky that the beach hasn’t warmed yet, and beneath the surface the sand is cool and damp. He wiggles his toes with pleasure, then flushes, catching Victor staring. 

“Well, here we are. What are we waiting for?”

It’s only now that they’re so near that Victor begins to hesitate. He’s fawn-like, skittish at the periodic sound of the crashing waves, and Yuuri has to remind himself that for Victor, everything about this experience is brand new. For once, it’s up to Yuuri to lead the way.

He does his best to gentle Victor, sweeping his thumb across the thin skin on the back of his hand, trying to find a pattern that’s more soothing than urgent. Their feet sink deep into the soft golden sand with each step as Yuuri pulls his lover slowly toward the waves. He looks back often, watching Victor’s reaction. His lips are parted, eyes darting along the horizon, taking in everything with the same urgent intensity he must have on the battlefield.

Yuuri’s struck with the image of what Victor would look like out there--equally engaged, but also confident, shrewd, and commanding. What a gift, now, that he’s trusted Yuuri to be his lead.

For some time, they simply walk, hand in hand on the dry sand. The waves curl and crest in the distance, frothing a fearsome white, then rush toward the shore like berserkers. Yuuri keeps them well clear of anywhere he can tell the tide has touched, and that’s plenty for Victor, who is still watching every surge of water with curious wariness. 

At a peak in the tide, Yuuri pauses. Victor’s eyes widen and he tugs Yuuri’s hand, urging him away, but Yuuri stays still, waiting. The waves surge in, fury diminishing as they break along the shore, and a rush of water slips toward them, eddying around his bare feet and the soles of Victor’s boots. 

Yuuri wiggles his toes in the wet sand and smiles as Victor reaches down, catching the last of the water with his fingers. “What do you think?”

Victor rubs his fingers together. “It’s colder than I expected,” he says after some consideration. He pops a finger into his mouth, then makes a face. “It tastes worse than week-old salt pork.”

“Well, you aren’t meant to drink it.” 

“What are you meant to do with it, then?” Victor asks, eyes twinkling. He reaches for Yuuri, who goes to him too easily, leaning into the touch, only to end up with Victor’s damp hand smeared across his cheek. “Is that it?”

“No, this is.” Stooping, Yuuri gathers a pool of sea water in his cupped hands. 

Victor takes off running, but Yuuri gives chase, freer without boots sucking at his feet and more accustomed to moving on sand. He catches up quickly, opening his palms over Victor’s hair. Few drops actually fall, most of it lost to the chase, but Victor still yelps, dodging away before turning abruptly back. 

He catches Yuuri around the waist, but the momentum and the soft sand throw him. They fall back, and the shore catches them. Sand pours into every opening in Yuuri’s clothes as they roll, gasping, just out of reach of an encroaching wave.

When they stop, Victor’s on top, bracing himself on his knees to protect Yuuri from his full weight. He laughs, mouth open in a wide, toothy grin, and the sight is heartstopping. 

“There’s sand in your hair,” Victor says, reaching up to brush the black strands back from Yuuri’s face.

“There’s sand in my _everywhere_.” Yuuri decides not to bring up the seaweed entwined with Victor’s silver locks. It looks deliberate, like Victor could be a young noble testing new fashions at court. 

“Everywhere, you say?” Victor pulls at the lacings on Yuuri’s shirt, his smile slipping from open to sly, and _oh_ \-- That will _really_ result in the sand getting everywhere, but considering that Yuuri’s already halfway there, they might as well keep going.

“Hey!” A cracking, high-pitched voice breaks through their reverie, startling them apart. “What are you doing out here?”

Yuuri sits up as Victor scrambles back. He turns to find two youths on the shore, some distance away. Two boys stare them down, one brown-haired and the other blonde with a fierce red streak. The dark-haired one carries a torn and patched fishing net. The other is holding the handle of a leaking wooden bucket with both hands. 

“What are _you_ doing out here?” Victor returns cooly, back straight as if he’s standing in judgement and not perched on his lover’s hips, seaweed in his hair and sand streaking his skin.

The two boys trade a glance. “Well… We asked first!” The blonde one yells. 

“You can’t fish here,” the other boy adds, quieter. “That is-- they’re the king’s fish.”

Victor smirks, glancing down at Yuuri, who shakes his head frantically. “Oh? Which one of you is the king, then?”

Both of the kids go red at the question. The blond opens and closes his mouth, searching for a response, but clearly has nothing, just as Victor knew he wouldn’t.

Yuuri knows exactly what it can feel like to be helpless in Victor’s presence.

“Don’t worry,” he says, hand on Victor’s chest to push him gently back. “We’re not here to fish. We were only out for a walk. We aren’t going to tell anyone you’re here.”

The boys relax, tense shoulders slumping and pink fading from their cheeks. “Thank you,” the dark-haired one says quietly. “Sorry about Kenjirou. He can be… a lot.” He finishes with a small smile that Yuuri can’t help returning.

Yuuri starts to dust the sand from his knees before giving it up as a loss. There’s little point to cleaning the outside of his breeches when half the beach seems to have disappeared under his waistband. He rolls to stand, only to find Victor’s beat him to it. His outstretched hand waits to assist Yuuri to his feet.

Victor pulls Yuuri by the hand all the way up, then continues, lifting Yuuri’s knuckles to brush his lips. His silver lashes fan his cheeks, but the angle does nothing to conceal the self-satisfied smirk he’s wearing. Yuuri feels himself beginning to flush, aware of the two boys still watching them. He slips his hand free and turns as if he noticed something at the cabin, hiding his face.

“So, are the king’s fish biting, then?” Victor asks. There’s a long pause, then Yuuri hears him say quietly, “Oh no, please don’t.”

He turns back to find the dark-haired boy’s eyes are now brimming with tears. His knuckles are white where he clutches at his fishing net like a small child with a beloved soft toy. The blond one -- Kenjirou -- drops his bucket, which rolls down the beach, empty, and puts his hands on his friend’s shoulders instead.

“Hey, it’s fine,” he says, tone pleading. “Guang Hong, listen. It’s going to be okay. Even if we don’t get any fish, we got the rabbit already, right? We won’t be going home with nothing.”

“A rabbit-- A rabbit’s not enough for _everyone_ ,” Guang Hong chokes out between sobs. “It’s not even enough for us.”

Victor is chewing his lip, brow furrowed deeply. At his sides, his hands clench, then open. He runs one over his face, and his concerned expression wipes away, becoming placid. “How did you catch the rabbit?” He asks gently.

Kenjirou looks up from passing his friend a threadbare handkerchief. “Luck, really.” He scratches at the back of his head, plastering on a wide but false smile. “We were walking across the field to get to the woods, and a hawk dropped the body at our feet.”

There are stormclouds and calculations swirling in Victor’s eyes, and Yuuri doesn’t know what to expect from him, but something is brewing. “Do you have weapons on you?” Victor asks, and the boys shake their heads. “Can either of you set a trap?”

“Dad showed me once, a few years ago,” Guang Hong says softly, staring at the scuff of his own shoes on the sand, “but then the army came through town.”

Yuuri doesn’t need to ask which army. It doesn’t matter, in the end.

Victor gathers his cane and straightens his back. “Come on, then. You’re both going to get a lesson. Traps, at least, and then perhaps the next time you come out here, you’ll return home with a bounty worth the risk of trespassing.”

A bit of panic flutters in Yuuri’s chest when he sees Victor pulling away -- this is _their_ time together, _their_ walk on the shore -- but he can’t ignore the way Kenjirou and Guang Hong both perk up at Victor’s offer. How selfish would he need to be to deny them a few minutes with Victor, in the absence of their parents? (And that absence, too, is likely Yuuri’s fault.)

It hurts only because Victor doesn’t ask first. His mind set, he leaves with the boys, and he doesn’t spare Yuuri a backward glance until they’re at the woodland’s edge. Yuuri raises his hand in a wave, but if Victor waves back, Yuuri’s sight is too blurred by sea air and distance to know.

-

By the time Victor returns, noon has long passed. Yuuri’s sat beneath a shade tree near a spit of beach, knees curled to his chest, and he sees Victor’s long shadow wavering toward him before the man himself. Hovering over the horizon, the sun is brilliant gold, and when Victor steps in front of it, it makes his face look dark as his shadow.

“Did they have any luck?” Yuuri asks, eyes tracing the golden highlights haloing Victor against the sun.

“Not much. They netted a bird for now, but the trick will be maintaining the setup and checking back often.” Victor sounds weary and tight, and he leans heavily on his cane though it sinks into the sand. 

Yuuri leans his head back against the tree trunk. “They’ll need to be careful. Wardens still come out here on patrol sometimes, watching for signs of poachers.

“I don’t need your instruction on avoiding the authorities,” Victor snaps. 

Ah, yes. He probably deserves that. Yuuri reaches up as he finds his feet, but this time there’s no hand to assist him. He levers himself on with a hand on the tree, feeling the rough bark gouge his palm. “Ready to go--” _home_ “--back, then?”

Victor nods and turns up the beach, not waiting for Yuuri to follow.

He’s easy enough to catch. From behind, Yuuri can see how heavily Victor falls on his cane with each step. When it slips deep into the sand, he wobbles, and Yuuri reaches out without thinking to break his fall, but Victor rights himself each time, and they never actually touch. 

When they reach the cabin, Yuuri shoulders the door closed behind them as Victor limps into the kitchen in search of food. “Let me check your wound,” Yuuri says, forcing the words out before he can doubt them.

Victor pauses, eyebrows raising. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Please?” Yuuri can see the shadows still lingering in Victor’s eyes, and he knows where some of them came from -- the boys on the beach, their hungry faces, the exhaustion of looking after them, the weight of the world. Yuuri can’t do anything about those things, but still, “I want to help.”

Victor hesitates before gesturing toward the hall. “The bedroom? I’d like to use the wash basin.” Yuuri nods, willing to go along wherever Victor feels most comfortable.

Perching at the end of the huge bed, Yuuri watches as Victor goes through the motions of cleaning up, wetting a cloth to wipe the smeared sand, sweat, and dirt from his face and neck. Yuuri’s not familiar with trapping game or what it entails, but he can assume a lot from the muck coming away from Victor’s skin and the bits of leaf and twig he sees Victor disentangling from his hair.

Victor’s shoulders rise and fall on a sigh, and he lowers the cloth to soak in the basin. Yuuri waits, silent, eyes lingering on the folds of fabric concealing Victor’s trim waist. With a single, swift movement, Victor removes his shirt. The pale skin of his back is still mottled with the same horrifying bruises Yuuri had noticed at the hot springs, though the edges of some have started to yellow. It’s a good sign. Yuuri tries to focus on that as Victor slowly unwinds the white strips of bandage from his torso.

When he finally turns, Yuuri sucks in his breath so he can’t make a sound. Good or ill, it wouldn’t help Victor relax here. He reaches out, gesturing for Victor to step closer, where Yuuri’s eyes can take in more of the detail. Victor steps in once, then again, until Yuuri can feel the heat of his skin against the tips of his fingers. 

He releases his breath.

It’s not as bad as he’d imagined. That’s the thing about Yuuri’s mind sometimes; he can’t help picturing the worst possible outcome. He’d expected torn flesh, a slow seep of blood, harsh black stitches marring smooth skin -- it’s not like that at all.

The cut is about the length of Yuuri’s palm, but mostly sealed. New, pale pink skin puckers the edges, lashed with the silvery threads of healing potions. The size and the newness of it are both alarming, but it’s not red or gaping. It looks _good_ , considering. 

“Can I--?” Yuuri asks, fingers still hovering, and Victor nods. Carefully, he traces the edge of the cut with his forefinger, feeling the ridges of new skin rise to meet his touch. He lets out a shuddering breath. It will scar, nothing more, and there are so many other scars on Victor’s body to keep it company. In a year, Yuuri likely won’t be able to tell it apart from the others.

He’s been afraid to bring it up, afraid of the reasons Victor might be hiding it from him, but seeing the injury in person does much to dim that fear, and Yuuri at last asks what he had wondered all along. “How did you get it?”

Victor is staring down, watching the glide of Yuuri’s fingers on his skin. “Poor luck,” he says at first. Then, inclining his head, he adds, “Some might say carelessness.” 

Clearly someone already had.

“My usual horse went off her feed the night before the fighting started. Yakov warned me to stay back, to keep out of things rather than go into a battle on a fresh mount, but I couldn’t allow that.” His expression firms, lips pursed. “I don’t send my people into conflicts then sit back and watch them fall. I borrowed a horse from one of the younger recruits and went anyway.

“The gelding spooked when the first mage blast hit. I was thrown.” Victor shakes his head, and Yuuri would give anything to see the memory he knows is playing behind Victor’s blue eyes. “I stood back up quickly, but… even a single breath unguarded on a battlefield can be too long. They were behind me. The knife-- They reached around.” He gestures, a slashing motion turned _inward_.

He stops, and Yuuri reaches for his hand, caressing the heart of Victor’s palm with his thumb. “What happened?”

“Someone got me out; I don’t know who. There was… a lot of blood. It went bad.” He seems to be far away again, deep in his recollections. “I wasn’t aware for much of the next part. Every time I was awake, it was pain. They told me afterward that I was sick for several days.” Reaching up, he runs his free hand through his hair. “The healers had to cut it near the end. They wouldn’t show me what they removed, only said it was too matted to leave. Fever sweat, mud, and blood make for a poor grooming tool, I suppose. 

“I’d only been out of bed for a day or two when Yuuko’s messenger arrived.” Yuuri snaps his head up at that admission, taking in Victor’s crooked smile. “I told you before, didn’t I? I’m weak for you.”

“You’re foolish,” Yuuri counters, but he tugs at Victor’s hand, pulling him in until his knees bump the end of the bed. Leaning in, he graces the edge of the scar with a kiss before reaching up, reeling Victor in once more until their lips can meet, still soft as his fingers tilt Victor’s chin. 

Chaste kisses ended, Yuuri leans back on the bed and beckons Victor with two fingers. “Come here, please. I want to hold you.”

Victor smiles, eyes sparkling. “Oh no. I’m feeling weak again.” Hands and knees, he crawls up the mattress to join Yuuri and folds himself into his lover’s arms.

Yuuri sighs and lets his eyes fall closed. He caresses Victor’s side, his neck, his hair, delighting in the feeling of so much warm, bare skin beneath his palms, and Victor nuzzles in closer still, nose pressed to the sensitive space behind Yuuri’s ear.

When Victor speaks again, his voice is so quiet that Yuuri wouldn’t have heard him if there were more than a breath of space between their faces. “I never thought I’d be able to have this.”

 _Neither did I_ , Yuuri thinks. He doesn’t need to say it, not now. Victor knows. Instead, he runs his fingers again through the soft strands of Victor’s hair and presses his lips to Victor’s forehead. He’s never been a believer in fate or cosmic powers; he’s seen the reality of petty men pulling the strings in life one too many times to give credence to such things. Still, it seems impossible that in all the world, he and Victor wound up where they are… And then, they wound up here.

Tomorrow is their last day at the cabin, and after that, who knows when they might be together again at all, much less with so many uninterrupted hours. His hold on Victor tightens, and he buries his face in Victor’s hair as he gathers the courage to speak.

When the words come, they spill out like marbles from a paper sack. “I love you,” Yuuri says, feeling tears prick the corners of his eyes. Victor’s hair smells like the sea. “I love you so much it seems stupid I’ve never bothered to say it out loud. I’ve loved you in some way since before we ever met, really, and I’m afraid even if you wanted me to I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

He’s holding Victor so tightly, he can sense the tension running through the body pressed against his. It makes him want to cling, terrified of what that means, but he forces his hands to gentle, to let Victor pull back if that’s what he needs to do. 

And Victor does pull back. He props himself up on one arm, looking down at Yuuri with a somber expression. When Yuuri tries to turn his head toward the pillow, Victor stops him with a hand cupping his cheek, thumb tracing Yuuri’s skin as he forces Yuuri to meet his eyes. 

“You know,” Victor says, “I attended your coronation parade.” 

Of all the outcomes Yuuri imagined to his confession, many of them devastating, this had not been on the list. 

Victor continues, still staring into Yuuri’s eyes as if searching for something lost in there, “I only saw you for a second, a flash when you pulled back the curtain. You were so small then, and I was just a boy myself, so maybe it’s foolish to look back and say I felt anything in that moment, but--” his thumb traces Yuuri’s lower lip, and his eyes drop to follow that path “-- maybe I was born to love you from the very beginning.” 

The kiss that comes next is a natural conclusion. Yuuri surges into Victor’s arms and finds Victor waiting to meet him. He clutches at Victor’s arms, holding on tight enough that in the morning he’ll recognize bruises. Their lips collide with eager enthusiasm, and Victor’s fingers comb through Yuuri’s hair as he pulls his lover closer. 

He gentles, his hands slipping down to cup Yuuri’s face instead, and Yuuri lets himself be lead like a flower turns toward the sun, slowing their kisses into something more careful, more tender. 

When they part again, their positions have flipped, Yuuri now half sprawled over Victor’s bare chest. He traces the curve of Victor’s cheekbone and watches his eyes close. A spark of wonder flutters in Yuuri’s chest. 

“How is this even possible?” he whispers.

Victor’s eyes slit open. “What, my love?”

“That we could find each other. That one of us would be born a prince and the other a peasant. That you might one day come to lead a rebellion and walk into my palace to meet me face to face as an enemy and then…” Yuuri swipes his thumb over Victor’s plump lower lip, and Victor kisses it before he can pull away. “Despite all these circumstances, that the two of us might fall in love.”

Victor takes Yuuri’s hand in his own, leaning into the press of his lover’s palm. “I can’t answer most of that,” he says. “Though, I suppose… there were certain events that put us on this path. I’d never have met you, if not for the rebellion.” His eyes darken, shuttering. “And I’d never have joined the rebellion if my mother hadn’t died.”

The new, chillier look on Victor’s face is out of place in their bower here, but Yuuri finds it doesn’t worry him. He lays his head on Victor’s shoulder and allows himself to be held on tightly. He doesn’t say, _Tell me_ , but lets Victor take the lead again.

“No one really knows this story, aside from the few who were there,” Victor begins. “My childhood was like anyone else in the lower capitol. I played in the streets with other children during the day and spent the nights at home with my mother. Occasionally, I stole for fun or for food, but even that was unremarkable in my neighborhood.

“Then, when I was thirteen, my mother grew ill.” Victor tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling above their bed. The trace of his fingertips on Yuuri’s upper arm shows he’s still present, still here in the cabin, but his memory is roaming far away. 

“There were potions I understood might make her well, but the mages in that part of the city think more highly of themselves than they do others. The money ran out quickly once Mama got too sick to work, and then my game of stealing grew more serious.” He shakes his head, lips tilting in a half smile. “Mama hated that. She wanted me to grow up the right way. But I couldn’t see a good future without her in it. I put everything I had into trying to save her.

“Obviously, it didn’t work.” 

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri murmurs and feels Victor’s arm around him tighten. “I would have liked to know her.”

Victor chuckles at that. “Oh dear. She would have loved that. She was a huge supporter of the royal family, believe it or not. There was a very bad portrait of your grandfather hanging over our stove.” He shakes his head at the memory.

“After she passed away, I had no idea what to do with myself or our things. I couldn’t keep up our home by myself, though I tried. Some of her friends attempted to help, but they weren’t any better off than we’d been -- thieves, prostitutes, kitchen maids, and many of them ill and in need of care themselves.” His eyes drift back to the ceiling, staring off at something unsee. “Then, Lilia arrived.”

“Lilia,” Yuuri repeats at a whisper, frowning. The name is unusual, yet familiar. Hairs raise on the back of his neck, insisting he’s heard of this name somewhere before, but he can’t recall where. 

“She had something none of my mother’s other friends had -- the name of my father. Because he was a noble, my mother hadn’t spoken to anyone about the affair, but it was Lilia who had enabled their dalliance, acting as a go-between to get my mother into parts of the city where she didn’t belong. Before she came to see me, she’d already been to that man’s house.”

Victor’s lips tilt in a wry smile. “I’m pretty sure she threatened him, honestly -- not physically, though I’d believe she’s capable of it, but Lilia was always a fan of the possibilities of blackmail. I’m sure the last thing Chancellor Hudson wanted floating around court was talk of a love affair with a _peasant whore_.”

“ _Hudson_?” Yuuri’s mouth falls open and he pulls away from Victor, sitting up to stare down at his lover’s bemused face. Unable to help himself, he searches those beloved features for any hint of resemblance to his advisor.

“He wasn’t a chancellor yet back then, of course. His father still held the position.” Victor’s smirk widens as he catches Yuuri’s eye. “I’m told I resemble my mother.”

Luckily for Yuuri, that’s true. He’s not sure how he’d cope with suddenly seeing one of his advisor’s features overlain with Victor’s. He makes a face, thinking of it, and Victor laughs, poking the corner of Yuuri’s mouth.

“I still can’t believe this,” Yuuri says, flopping back into Victor’s arms for a much-needed embrace. “I can’t imagine having _Hudson_ for a father, either.”

“It was… something.” The amusement falls away from Victor’s face. “He did as Lilia told him to -- he took me in. He gave me a bed, food to eat, and a tutor to educate me in hopes he could someday pass me off as a valet or perhaps even a distant cousin. But our relationship never grew any closer than that.” He frowns. “Soldiers treat their horses with more affection than I found in that house.”

“You left,” Yuuri guesses, and Victor nods. His hand, now resting on Yuuri’s lower back, begins to stroke in short, soothing lines. 

“I left,” Victor says, “but not until two years later. Not until I’d walked in the sumptuous gardens of my father’s home, learned manners and the art of noble subterfuge under a tutor for years, and seen my grandfather and his friends throw away money as if it were no better than rotten meat.”

Victor’s blue eyes burn, his cheeks flushing in reaction to an internal flame. The next words come out deep, far more harsh than anything Victor has ever said to Yuuri before. ”By the time I left, I hated him. Not just him -- all of them. All of these men who treated those below their station like so much disease, who wasted and partied and laughed in gilded hallways while my own people suffered and starved.

“I didn’t just want to escape it by then. I wanted to tear it apart with my bare hands piece by piece,” his hand on Yuuri tightens, fingertips pressing hard into the flesh of his arm. “All the way to the top, until there were no more birthrights, no more nobles, no more kings.”

Yuuri nestles his cheek into Victor’s chest, rising out the peak and fall of his breathing. He knows how the story goes from here. Victor had built a movement, then an army, and then, one fateful evening, he’d infiltrated Yuuri’s birthday, intending to commit regicide. 

Instead, they find themselves here.

Yuuri tries to imagine a world without nobles in it, but he can’t. He can picture himself as he might have been in some other lifetime -- an innkeeper’s son who knows how to sweep floors and cook meals -- but to envision the eradication of a whole social order…

It’s not a vision Yuuri can comprehend, and that’s part of why he loves Victor. The passion he has, the ability to believe in another way despite the realities of their current lives -- it’s inspiring. Even though Yuuri can’t manage to see the pathway forward himself, he knows one thing to be true: he’ll follow Victor anywhere he chooses to go.

Levering himself up with one arm, he hovers over Victor and watches as those blue flame eyes slowly shift their focus from within. Yuuri waits until Victor’s attention is entirely on him, noting with deep satisfaction that this shift does nothing to dim the passion in those eyes. 

He traces the curve of Victor’s cheekbone with a thumb before leaning in, feathering kisses along his brow, then cheeks, the tip of his nose, and his chin before finally tilting his head to bring their lips to meet. Victor rises eagerly to the kiss, tangling his hand in Yuuri’s shirt to tug him close and hold him there.

Yuuri wants nothing more than to lock the doors of their cabin and live in this space, curled in the bed and alive against Victor’s lips. He wants it so badly that, for a long time, he refuses to move, drinking in the lingering kisses, breathing in every ounce of joy Victor can give him, holding onto the body firm beneath his that gasps and arches into each stroke of Yuuri’s hand.

This past week and forever, Victor has given Yuuri more than he ever imagined, and Victor -- kind, confident, creative -- still has so much left to give the world. Yuuri’s struck by the idea that there’s little power he has here, so little left of himself that he can still give to Victor in return. He’ll have to settle, then, for that insufficient amount. He’ll simply have to give Victor everything he has. 

Pulling back from the longest kiss, Yuuri presses his lips to Victor’s neck, then his collarbone. He lingers at the broad expanse of Victor’s chest, drinking in the gasps and whines that rain down on him as he lavishes attention on Victor’s muscles there and the firm, pink peaks of his nipples. 

The sounds there are so delicious, it’s hard to move on, but Yuuri pushes himself further, tasting the line of muscle at the center of Victor’s abdomen, working his path down to that first sprinkling of coarse, silvery hair that teases its presence at the waist of Victor’s breeches. 

“What are you doing?” Victor gasps when he feels Yuuri grip his hips, thumb pressing into the space just inside that curve of bone, mouth lingering hot over the hard flesh barely hidden beneath cloth. It’s the first full sentence he’s spoken since ending his story. Yuuri’s lips curve into a smile suffused with mischief and happiness.

“Why, I’m swearing fealty to my king,” Yuuri replies slyly. Then he pulls the tie of Victor’s waistband apart with his teeth and makes certain his vow is understood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret that I have but one chapter left to give for my country.


	6. Chapter 6

Yuuri wakes the next morning to new things now grown familiar -- soft sunlight from the window, a cool breeze, the chirping of woodland birds and the chatter of small rodents, and best of all, a warm weight curled into his side. It’s his new favorite way to wake up, and that fills him from head to toe with an icy wash of fear.

It’s the last day.

Later this evening, Yuuko and Takeshi will return with the carriage and bundle Yuuri in, back to his palace prison, and Victor, too, will leave the cabin by whatever means he must. Victor will return to the war. And, perhaps, the next time Yuuri gets bad news from the battlefront, it will be true. 

His arm, draped over Victor’s shoulders as they slept, tightens without Yuuri meaning it to, and Victor groans as he begins to wake. Yuuri feels his lover shift, then stop, body stiffening. He opens his eyes, watches Victor open his, and knows when the blue appears he’ll find it suffused with the same sorrow in his heart. They can’t stay here forever.

They may never be alone like this again. 

Yuuri reaches for Victor’s face, cupping his cheek and stroking a thumb along the rise of bone beneath, and Victor leans into the gesture, head tilted and eyes half closed. Victor’s arms coil around Yuuri, one hand on the small of his back, and pull him close, bodies flush already before their mouths ever meet.

When they do, they devour. Victor’s fingers are digging marks into Yuuri’s flesh, and his in own brief flashes of clarity, he can feel himself doing the same. His fingers have crept to the back of Victor’s head. When Victor bites his lower lip, Yuuri’s grip tightens, and Victor whines, pressing back into the pull on his scalp, then forward again to lure Yuuri’s tongue into his mouth and suck.

Yuuri’s hips are already working. Their bodies are bound so tightly together that the grinding contact carries almost as much pain as pleasure, but each time he pulls back, Victor presses forward, refusing to allow more than a breath between them. He rolls onto his back, and Victor pursues, stretched out serpentine between Yuuri’s legs, one hand enmeshed in Yuuri’s hair as the other attempts to find its way into the absence of space between them.

They had never dressed after their activities the night before, and so it’s no secret how enormously they want one another. Yuuri’s cock, pressed to Victor’s hip, pulses, and he feels an answering shudder of need in Victor. 

Yuuri wants to devour him, to reach beyond pressing skin to skin and enmesh their flesh into a single body. He wants to crawl into Victor’s bones, press their hearts side by side, and feel their straining rhythms join in harmony. If they could become so tied up in one another, nothing outside would ever force them apart.

He takes gulps of air from Victor’s lips, presses his hands to the sides of Victor’s face, tugs at his silvery hair and feels the other man’s taut body arch against his, as if Victor wants the same thing, to climb inside. 

It shouldn’t be so surprising, then, when Victor’s long fingers skate between Yuuri’s cheeks, brushing against the hidden hole there. Still, Yuuri gasps, shudders, clings more tightly. It’s new for him, and he doesn’t know if it’s new for Victor too, but he doesn’t want to ask now. The thought of someone else having Victor, touching him like this -- a deep sharpness shoots through Yuuri’s limbs at the idea. 

“Want you,” Victor whispers against his lips, and, “Don’t move. Stay here with me, darling. You’re doing so good.”

The breach, when it comes, is unsettling. Too dry and edged with a burn, Yuuri nevertheless pushes back into it, the reach of it satisfying something yawning in his chest. 

_More_.

Even as he thinks it, Yuuri knows it wouldn’t be enough. There’s a pit of hunger in him that has nothing to do with fingers, nothing to do with bodies at all, and the closest he can get to feeding himself is to drink in Victor’s kisses, the sight of his head tilted back on the pillow and throat bared to the world, the restless movement of his body against Yuuri’s, his hands withdrawing to cradle Yuri’s hips instead.

Victor comes first, hot between their bare stomachs, and Yuuri kisses him through it, shaking with impatient need even as he waits for the last of Victor’s gulping breaths to quiet.

With calmer eyes, Victor swipes the hand not inside Yuuri down his own stomach, gathering the cooling spend there. He reaches for Yuuri’s cock, palm coated in that sticky slickness that was once part of Victor, and Yuuri groans long and low at the relief of that touch. 

He thrusts into it, and with each beat, back onto the finger pressed within him -- hot, persistent, _frustrating_ \-- and Victor presses kisses to Yuuri’s lips and face. He murmurs into Yuuri’s temple and the sweat-curled hair there, a constant stream of, “You’re beautiful, Yuuri, my love, my king. So perfect for me. No one else. I’m ruined. I love you. I do love you. I’ll love you forever.”

It’s everything. It’s exactly what Yuuri needs, and at the same time, not nearly enough. He grinds forward into Victor’s tightening grip, back into his unmoving finger, and when he comes it’s a shaking surrender to inevitability. 

In their wreckage, Yuuri lies still and silent. Despite the mess crusting between their bodies, he’s reluctant to roll away, curling up in a few more moments of peace, skin against skin and the delicate tap of Victor’s fingers walking up and down his spine. He keeps his ear pressed to Victor’s chest, eyes closed as he listens to the slowing _thump_ of his lover’s heart at rest. 

Sex may have calmed the fire in his nerves, but there’s still a piece missing from Yuuri. He’s a shattered vase, dropped carelessly on the stone floor and then mended by inexpert hands. The form is correct. It looks solid, but when filled, it drips from a dozen tiny wounds.

Victor’s chest rises and falls beneath his cheek, warm and steady. His breath ruffles Yuuri’s hair when he exhales. He’s fallen back asleep, content to lie in Yuuri’s arms and the morning sunlight, but Yuuri can’t stay. The holes in him are beginning to ache.

He gets up, gradually slipping away from Victor’s arms and replacing himself with an extra blanket when Victor frowns and stirs. He steps into his underclothes, then pulls on his shirt, leaving the neck untied. The shirt hem dangles down to his thighs, brushing his skin as he walks. He closes the bedroom door behind him as he goes, careful not to let it squeal or click. 

The cabin is quiet, save for some muted birdsong. Yuuri breathes the air deep and wanders into the main room. He runs his fingers over the furniture, which will soon be covered with sheets again. It’s hard to believe it was only a few days ago that they’d argued in here, worrying over dirt on the floor of all things. Yuuri runs a toe along the boards, feeling the bumpy, stuttering grain of the wood. 

He’d sleep in a mud puddle in the woods if it meant another night resting at Victor’s side.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself. The word comes out barbed and vicious. For all the supposed power behind his title, Yuuri has no way to keep Victor safe from another battlefield, no way to bind Victor to him with anything but pretty words. If there’s one thing Yuuri’s learned as king, it’s the hollowness of pretty words.

He paces the room, arms clasped behind his back, bare feet soundless on the wood floor. His thoughts are scattered, filled with a hundred desires but no true _plans_ , and that only frustrates him more, until his fingers dig grape-sized bruises into his forearms. He glances around the room, looking for a mess, a book, something that will distract him from what he most wants to do -- wake Victor up again, cling to him, and beg him never to leave.

Instead, Yuuri finds a door. 

The cabin has many doors, and Victor and Yuuri hadn’t bothered to open most of them beyond a glance when they arrived. More rooms just meant more cleaning to worry about, and they didn’t need much beyond the kitchen and a bedroom. Really, they could have lived with just the bedroom. 

But now, eager for something to do with his hands besides wounding himself, Yuuri reaches for the curved metal handle and yanks it open. The hinges groan, protesting their use after such a long time dormant, but the heavy wood door swings open enough to admit a thick beam of sunlight from the window behind Yuuri. 

Yuuri’s eyes ache before he even gets a look inside. A flurry of dust flows out, and along with that a sweet, familiar scent of delicate petals and warm spice. _Mama._ Tears well up in his eyes in earnest and he clutches the rough hewn door frame to keep himself upright. It’s been nearly two decades since Yuuri last caught that smell beyond a few faded, forgotten things in the palace. 

Swallowing, he steps inside, careful not to block the light. It’s no wonder that when Victor opened the door he put the room aside as unnecessary. It’s only a storeroom, small and square with no windows. Against one wall, furniture is stacked haphazardly, some of it covered by familiar white sheets while other pieces are left, their embroidered cushions and curved shapes jutting out at peculiar angles. 

The other half of the room is a wardrobe, and that’s where Yuuri’s attention turns. Clothes are hung tight together, their fabrics blending into one another. Elaborate formal robes mix haphazardly with simple linens and thick, heavy furs. The items seem to be organized by owner, rather than use or season, and Yuuri runs this hands along the line of protruding sleeves, closing his eyes to count the textures as they flow through his fingers. 

This is where he caught the scent, and it grows more intense as he touches the clothes, disrupting their hidden secrets. Something hard rustles in the pocket of an apron beneath his grasp, and Yuuri turns it out to find a small, plain cloth sachet with a drawstring top. Inside he finds sticks, dried berries, and faded petals, and when he raises the pouch to his face, the fragrance is overwhelming. 

_Yuuri’s fingers are curled in cloth, the hem of a skirt. Far above his head, his parents are talking, but not in the soft tones and smiles he’s used to. His father looks away, covering his face with his hands, and his mother reaches out to him, her hand hanging in the air._

_It’s not right. Papa is sad. Mama is upset too, and Yuuri can’t do anything but tug at her skirt with both hands, pressing his face into the silk folds until he feels fingers in his hair, then under his arms, lifting him into the air._

_His mama is smiling again. Papa steps closer, ruffling Yuuri’s hair with one arm around Mama’s waist._

__”Now, don’t you start worrying too. Bad enough with your sister…”_ _

_The memory shatters. Yuuri swallows, squeezes his eyes closed for a moment to preserve the images as much as to hold back the press of tears, and turns back to the closet._

_He finds more of the bags in other pockets, and he pulls a few free before running out of room to hold them in his hands. He piles them in one of the discarded chairs in the other corner before returning to the clothes. His mama may have made the satchels herself, or she may have had them put together by maids, but all the scents are essentially the same, still fresh all these years later and flavoring her old clothing._

_Near the door, the items in the wardrobe shrink in size. The gowns are so small, Yuuri can’t imagine that his sister may have once worn them. In Yuuri’s memories, Mari Katsuki was a giant -- confident and whip smart, her hands perpetually planted on her hips as she faced down noblemen four times her age. Really, she was only a teenager -- twelve when she was crowned, and a girl of fourteen the day she climbed aboard a ship and never came home. Still, Yuuri barely remembers her as a child, much less a child young enough to wear a dress as big around as his thigh._

_Next to those things are more, even smaller. Yuuri doesn’t touch them. The memories that might come with looking at his own baby clothes are sharp enough to cut, even in theory, and that’s ignoring the worse, more likely possibility - that he’ll look at them and remember nothing at all._

_Beneath those items, their hems trailing over its top, is a dresser. It’s not like the other pieces on the opposite wall. Uncovered, it’s painted a deep green with scrolling gold and delicate flowers around the edges, and it looks as if someone might step into the room and use it any minute. It’s a loved item, worn around the drawer pulls from fingerprints. The only sign that it’s fallen into disuse is the thick layer of dust on its surfaces._

_Curious, Yuuri hooks a finger over the topmost drawer and looks inside. It bursts forth with a soft rainbow of fabrics - woolen scarves, sheer and delicate bits of decoration, and detailed lace all mix together, the container stuffed to the brim. Beneath the sashes, he finds more little pouches of dried flowers and herbs, and they explode with scent when he presses down on the fabric with his palm to close the drawer._

_The next drawer sparkles. It catches Yuuri off his guard at first, and he rears back. It seems impossible that such a treasure trove of entangled gold, silver, and jewels could be sitting out in this cabin, unused and untouched, but when he leans in for a closer look, he starts to smile._

_It’s costume jewelry, not the real thing. What he’d mistaken for gems is glass and paste. What he thought was gold is merely painted to look as such. Up close, he can see the nicks in the paint, feel the flimsiness of the glass beneath his fingers._

_That’s not all he feels when he passes the long strands of necklaces between his fingers, digging down to the bangles, cuffs, and earrings beneath. A tingle crawls from his palms up to his neck, raising every hair on his body along the way. Enchantments and charms are a weak magic, and apt to fade over time, so Yuuri knows that after twenty years any powers these items once held must be near dead. Yet the residual warmth still clings to them, a ghost of protection charms, lucky tokens, and glamors from the past._

_Beneath the chains and beaded coils, he finds a small wooden box. There’s a design carved into the lid, a decorative snowflake, and he runs his thumb over the ridges and valleys of it. The top slides back, revealing a pair of golden rings. Catching the little light in the closet, they glimmer, and Yuuri feels longing sharp and aching within his chest. The rings are warm to his touch, and he imagines them pulsing in time with his heartbeat._

_There’s no explaining how he knows it, but he’s certain the rings are _his_. They’re meant for him as surely as those small clothes hanging above the chest. He snaps the ring box closed and shuts the drawer with his hip, turns to gather up the herb pouches he took from his mother’s clothes, and goes in search of somewhere to keep his new belongings._

_The bedroom door is ajar. Yuuri presses his face to the crack, checking to see if Victor is still sleeping before he enters, but the bed is empty, the blankets curled into a rumpled nest. Yuuri’s breeches have been recovered from the floor and are hanging from a bedpost._

_Smiling, he lets the items in his hands spill out onto the mattress and steps into his breeches, then shrugs into his waistcoat. Into one pocket, he tucks a sachet of herbs. In the other, he hides the box. It protrudes even after he pats it into place._

_Victor is gone from the main cabin when Yuuri emerges, but the rear door onto the porch is open wide, a wordless note that says _I’m this way. Come hunt for me._ He’s not sitting on the bench beside the door, either, and there’s only one other place Yuuri would expect him to be._

_The sea is unruly today. Though the weather is bright and sunny over the cabin, the distant horizon shows steel grey clouds reaching for the waves. They curl up to meet the sky, frothing white and still tossing as they climb onto the sand._

_Yuuri finds Victor just beyond the last dunes, his boots off and toes buried in the sand. He turns when he hears Yuuri approaching and pushes his silvery hair back from his face with one hand. The dark and turbulent ocean makes his eyes seem pale in contrast._

_“Good morning,” he murmurs, reaching out for Yuuri. When their fingers touch, Victor reels Yuuri in to his side, arm winding around his waist. “I was going to invite you to join me before, but I saw you in the closet. I didn’t want to intrude.”_

_“It’s fine.” Yuuri means those words, for once. He’s not sure how he would have handled Victor stepping into that intimate space without warning. Things have worked out for the best this way._

_When Yuuri reaches for him, Victor turns into his embrace. They slip together so easily now, aware of all the places where their bodies fit. Yuuri’s fingers tug the newly-short hair at the back of Victor’s neck, and Victor bends in for a gentle, lingering kiss. Everything is the rush of waves and the sweet brush of their lips._

_Victor presses his face into Yuuri’s neck and inhales, his shoulders rising sharply beneath Yuuri’s hands. “You smell good,” he murmurs, making the sensitive skin there prickle._

_The next kiss is still soft, but not nearly so chaste as the first. Yuuri grips Victor’s face with both hands, and Victor’s fingers clutch at his waist in turn. When they part, their faces linger close, breathing each other’s breath, and Yuuri can feel moisture on Victor’s cheeks, dots of bright, cool wetness on his own. He blames it on the sea spray and tries blink it away before wiping his face, nuzzling into the scratchy fabric on Victor’s chest._

_“I want to pack you up in my luggage and carry you back with me,” Yuuri confesses, holding onto Victor with both hands pressed to his shoulder blades, feeling the rhythm of his breath. “If I could, I’d make you invisible to everyone else, and you’d haunt my steps at the palace like a restless spirit.” He sucks in a ragged breath, then laughs softly. “Well, you already do that, really.”_

_“I feel the same,” Victor murmurs into the part of Yuuri’s hair. “I want to take you away tonight, hide you, keep you safe at my side always.”_

_Yuuri squeezes Victor’s shoulders before pulling back, running his hands down Victor’s arms until their hands are clasped. Remembering a smokey ballroom and a young man with long silver hair at a masquerade, Yuuri lifts Victor’s right hand and presses a kiss to his finger, where a signet ring might rest if Victor, too, were King._

_“If you don’t mind,” Yuuri begins, and he drops Victor’s other hand to fumble for the lump in his pocket. He probably ought to be nervous. He isn’t. The lid slides open easily beneath his thumb, and the matching gold bands catch the dim light creeping through the clouds and glow with it. Yuuri takes out the topmost ring and places it at the tip of Victor’s finger, not daring to look up at the other man’s face. “I thought you might carry me with you everywhere after all.”_

_“Yuuri.” Victor’s whisper is barely audible over the crashing waves. “Are you certain?”_

_“I’ve never been so certain of anything.” Yuuri slides the ring down Victor’s finger, smiling with satisfaction when it fits as if it were made for him. “We may not get a lifetime together or a chance to grow old, but if that’s the case then… What’s the point to waiting any longer, when I want to be with you forever today?”_

_Victor doesn’t say anything, but he reaches for the box, and Yuuri tips the second ring into his palm. As if enacting an ancient ceremony, Victor mirrors the exact steps Yuuri had taken - a kiss to his hand, then the ring poised on that fingertip. Brave Victor looks up in that moment, and their eyes connect._

_“Forever,” he promises, as the ring fits to its new home. “Or as long as we have.”_

_They seal the vow with a kiss which would be banned from any _official_ ceremony. Yuuri, on his toes, tugs at Victor’s hair to hold him in place. Victor’s hands begin on Yuuri’s face, but soon they’re on his hip, fingers delving under his waistband, the metal of his ring cool against Yuuri’s warm skin._

_When they pull back, they’re both breathless. “We have hours still,” Yuuri gasps. He doesn’t need to say more than that. Hand in hand, they rush back to the cabin to take full advantage of the time._

_-_

_It’s raining when the carriage arrives, a heavy and constant downpour. Takeshi, perched in the driver’s seat, is exposed to the elements. He looks like an overstuffed scarecrow in his big floppy hat and waterproofed coat, his shoulders rucked up to his ears, dodging mud from the horses’ hooves as they trot down the unkempt path leading to the cabin._

_In the back seat by herself, Yuuko chews her lower lip and twists her skirt between her hands. Five days they’ve been gone. Five days they left Yuuri here, and Yuuko doesn’t know what they’ll find when they arrive to take him home. She remembers a smaller Yuuri, chubby and unusually quiet for a child, who would nevertheless cling to her mother’s skirts and _scream_ when someone came to reclaim him from the kitchens. She’s not sure what the adult version of that would look like, but she’s tried to brace for it - it, and a half dozen options that might be even worse. _

_She strains to see out the window as they pull up in front of the building, swiping at the condensation fogging the glass, but that only smear fingerprints in her wake. Through the fog, she can make out the solid, squat figure of the cabin, and out front a dark, indistinct shape on the porch._

_Yuuko swings the carriage door wide as they come to a sloppy halt, and the rain rushes in as if she’d sent an invitation by courier. Ignoring it, she jumps out. Her boots sink into the mud, her skirts already spattered and stained. She raises her arm to shield her eyes and peers at the figure on the porch._

_Beneath the overhanging roof, Yuuri waits, his bag by his side. He’s alone, his hair plastered to his head and his white shirt gone transparent from the rain, and he looks much the same as he had when Yuuko and Takeshi left him, except for one thing._

_Alone and soaked to the skin, awaiting his return to a home that doesn’t truly want him there, Yuuri is smiling._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this installment of the series!
> 
> As I may have mentioned before, I still have two more parts planned for this AU. The next part should be fairly short, and it will catch us up to the events of The Darkest Hour. The fifth planned fic intends to be another long one, and that's going to be both the final installment and the only one to take place _after_ the boys run away together. 
> 
> It's likely to be a couple months before I get around to either of those, though. Now that this is done, my main priorities will be 1) similarly tying up my Fallen Angel AU by January 2021 and 2) a _very_ long canon-divergent multichap with fairytale/folklore elements that I've been writing on since February 2020. 
> 
> In terms of the next parts of this series... just keep your eyes peeled, I guess XD Thanks again for enjoying my melodramatic little sex jaunt here.


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